


True as It Can Be

by whelvenwings



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Absent John Winchester, Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Angel True Forms, Angel Wings, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Background Jody Mills/Donna Hanscum - Freeform, Ballroom Dancing, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Castiel (Supernatural) as Beast (Beauty and the Beast), Castiel (Supernatural)'s First Time, Castiel (Supernatural)'s True Form, Charlie Bradbury & Dean Winchester Friendship, Chuck is God, Dean as Beauty (Beauty and the Beast), Demisexual Castiel (Supernatural), Destiel Reverse Bang 2017, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, First Kiss, First Time Blow Jobs, Fluff and Angst, Gardener Castiel, Gardener Dean, Ghosts, Hand Jobs, Impala, Lawyer Sam Winchester, Lucifer (Supernatural)'s True Form, M/M, Mechanic Dean, Mechanic Dean Winchester, POV Dean Winchester, Pining, Praise Kink, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Teasing, Wolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 01:36:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 71,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11048568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whelvenwings/pseuds/whelvenwings
Summary: Growing up in a small town in Kansas, Dean learned from a young age that there was only one rule that couldn’t be broken, one place he couldn’t go - through the forest, to the long-abandoned Angel’s Hollow. But when Sam disappears, Dean’s left with no choice but to follow his brother's tracks through the dangers of the wood; little does he know that the most dangerous creature of all lurks not among the trees, but in the Hollow itself. Dean sets Sam free, at the cost of his own liberty - and, bound by magic, resigns himself to living out the rest of his days in the Hollow, at the mercy of the being within. The angel of Angel’s Hollow, however, has a story - is a prisoner, too, as much as Dean is. Only one thing can free them both - but it is impossible. For, after all: who could ever learn to love a beast?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was an absolute joy to write; I've loved it from the start to the finish. I'm so sad to be leaving the world of the story behind me!
> 
> This was written for the Destiel Reverse Bang 2017. A huge, huge thank you to my artist, [delicirony](http://www.delicirony.tumblr.com), for her inspiration with the amazing art - and for her patience. <3  
> The AO3 post with her art can be found [here!!!!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11057850)  
> The tumblr post with her art can be found [here!!!!](https://delicious-irony.tumblr.com/post/161293574573/tale-as-old-as-time)
> 
> Thank you so much, too, to [enchantedsleeper](http://www.enchantedsleeper.tumblr.com) and [thebloggerbloggerfun](http://www.thebloggerbloggerfun.tumblr.com), for being my beta-readers. Your encouragement made all the difference!!
> 
> Header below is made by yours truly because what can I say, I got way too into this and started swaying out of my lane and getting all multimedia up in here.
> 
> This fic is intended to be mostly in line with canon mythos on angels, ghosts, etc., with some slight tweaks. I hope you enjoy it!!

 

 

 

 

> _Love_  
>  Has a way of wilting  
>  Or blossoming  
>  At the strangest,  
>  Most unpredictable hour.  
>  This is how love is,  
>  An uncontrollable beast  
>  In the form of a flower.
> 
> _  
> ― Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun_

  

 

There are places nearby that are not what they seem.

They do their best to be quiet; they would rather not be noticed. Still - they cannot hide themselves, always. Like a pale face pressed against the outside of a window at midnight, they show through. And like the lush dark of a wolf pelt glimpsed between trees in a forest, they promise blood and teeth.

There was a place, in Kansas.

A place too big to hide forever - but clever and shadowed enough to hide for a long, long time. The people who made maps called it Angel’s Hollow _,_ and left it at that - and if the printers’ ink failed over those two words every time, left them coarse and lined and illegible on every atlas and leaflet and ordinance survey, no matter how often the cartridges were changed by the neatly-dressed secretary in the nice bright office in the big tall tower in the centre of a faraway city… well, no one seemed to be calling to complain _._ The maps sold well enough. Angel’s Hollow didn’t appear to need a name.

The people who lived in the closest towns called it nothing at all. They did not speak of it.

Most of the time, they liked to pretend it did not exist. Everyone knew about it, but no one went close - not even kids on loose-chained bikes, or dosed and bad-mouthed teens. Not even the oldest people, who should have been tired of the mystery, and too weather-beaten to be afraid. In that part of Kansas, though, the weather beat the fear into you, not out of you.

Every now and again, strangers came to town; some even tried to drive through Angel’s Hollow, though they would inevitably find their cars stalling and the signs broken. And if, determined or stupid or both, they made it past the broken signs, the roads would start to look hungry - and the shadows would start to smile - and the wolves would begin to pick up a howl... the age-old howl, the one heard in times of grimoires and guillotines, and further back still, in fireside fear-stories.

Those who stayed on the road long enough to hear the howl were the ones who usually ended up in the tiny garage of Lebanon, Kansas, with speckled punctures in their doors that looked suspiciously like the marks of teeth.

No one got further than the howl.

No one got through the wood, and saw what lay beyond, in the great cavernous dip of Angel’s Hollow. No one saw the spires, the turrets; the cruel and shadow-thickened stones, that built up a castle shredded from the pages of the brothers Grimm themselves. No one saw the stained-glass windows; ah, that’s for the best, though. The only colour they used was red, red, deep blood red.

And no one saw the movement - the great, impossible, swift-as-a-bite movement of the Angel - the immense, dark, furious Angel, who lived in Angel’s Hollow.


	2. Chapter 2

In the quiet of the garage in the evening, Dean Winchester was sitting at his tool table. It was about as clean as Dean wasn’t - tools neatly ordered, wood of the table scrubbed. A few plants waved green, well-watered leaves desultorily in the breeze from a wheezing old electrical fan propped on a chair a few metres away. The heat, even with the fan, was thick and oppressive.

Dean picked up a wrench and flipped it in his hand experimentally, testing the weight of it - and showing off, just a little, as he caught it effortlessly, end over end. There was no one to show off to in the garage, but that didn’t matter hugely.

“Alright, then, Old Beauty,” he said, approaching a hulking four-by-four. Dean was oil-stained, his t-shirt more ragged than the rag over his shoulder, strong tanned arms showing through the threaded holes at hems and seams. He gave the car hood a light pat before he opened it up. “Let’s see what we’ve got here. Is it a spark plug thing? Yeah, I thought so. It’s a spark plug thing. It’s  _ always  _ a spark plug thing with you.” He gave the car another affectionate little tap. “But don’t feel like I love you any less for that.”

He set down his wrench and leaned in over the engine, taking a longer look at her. The car was old, but she was in relatively good shape - her owner kept her well-serviced and running smoothly. Dean could appreciate that; he gave a grunt of satisfaction, looking over the shine on the cylinder head and the valves.

“Someone loves you,” he said. “Treats you right. I bet you like that, huh? Wouldn’t we all like that.”

He reached in a hand and tweaked a wire.

“Yeah, OK. We’ll get you fixed up tonight, babe. You’re going to be running smooth in half an hour. Smooth like jazz. Smooth like satin. Smooth like -” He turned to his tool table, and only then noticed that he was not, in fact, alone in the garage. 

Standing watching him with an upraised eyebrow was his boss - the diminutive figure of Fergus Crowley. Dean stared at him for a few moments in surprised silence, and received only an upraised brow of inquiry in return.

“Uh,” Dean said.  _ You creepy bastard. No - no, be polite.  _  “Hey. Sorry. Didn’t see you there. I was just…” He gestured needlessly at the car. “You know.”

“You keep talking to them like that,” said Crowley, walking up to Dean’s desk on quiet feet, “you’ll go cuckoo.” He reached down and snapped a leaf off one of the plants resting on the scrubbed wood surface; Dean watched as he held it up, looking at it in the musty orange light of the garage’s strip panels overhead. “Nice... greenery, by the way. Did you bring it from home for show and tell?”

“You can’t eat it,” Dean said quickly. Crowley stopped considering the leaf between his fingers and instead looked up at Dean, bemused.

“I wasn’t going to  _ eat  _ it, you Neanderthal. Do you think I get all my meals  _ à la plant _ ?” He snorted, and twisted the plant leaf to a crumple, and let it drop to the floor.

“I thought -” Dean said, his ears turning red. It had  _ looked  _ like Crowley was going to eat it - hadn’t it? “Never mind. I’m just fixin’ up Old Beauty here, and then I’ll be gone.”

“Spark plugs?”

“Like always, yeah.”

Crowley rolled his eyes.

“She’s like you, that car. Always got a spark plug loose.” He pulled a mock-severe expression. “I’m not paying you overtime. Be out of here by six or fix her on your own time.”

Dean, already turning away, gave a little grunt of recognition. He couldn’t expect Crowley to be a  _ reasonable  _ boss, after all, Dean reminded himself. He couldn’t expect Crowley to be pleased with any extra effort - not even when the garage was doing well, had a high turnover of jobs, and could easily afford to pay Dean a little overtime to get work done faster. God, no, Dean thought wryly. That would just be asking too much.

“What, that’s all the reply I get?” Crowley did a little sardonic impression of Dean’s grunt. Frowning, Dean glanced back over his shoulder. Crowley raised an eyebrow at him, that smirk on his face - the one that never meant anything good. He was like that fat little cat, Dean thought suddenly. The little fat black cat in that old Disney movie. What was it - Cinderella, the one that Dean had caught on TV once? He could have sworn the cat had an appropriately evil name, as well.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude,” he said aloud, flatly. Crowley pushed his little paw-hands into the pockets of his dark overcoat, and shrugged.

“You know, Dean, I’ve been saying this to you for months, now. If you’d just play your cards right, you wouldn’t have to be stuck here fixing up Old Beauty’s bloody spark plugs every six months. You could be in one of our other branches. We’ve got one about to open down in Dallas, how about that?”

“You know this place is my home,” Dean said stolidly, walking back over to Old Beauty and laying a hand on her, for the comfort of her smooth, cold metal under his hand. He faced away from Crowley, hoping he’d leave.

Crowley snorted.

“You don’t seem to get it, Deano,” he said, and Dean gritted his teeth, rolled his eyes - quietly, out of sight - at the wrongness of the nickname in Crowley’s mouth, just as much as he always did. “I’m not just offering you a different place to live. It’s a whole new life. You could move up in the company. Since I negotiated the deal and the company bought you out, I’ve gone up in the world, and you could too. It’s not all oil rags, and…” 

Dean turned to look just as Crowley lifted a hand to indicate the general state of Dean’s garage, his workplace - his home. “There’s a good life out there, Dean. Drinks. Girls. Boys. In-betweens. Whatever. A good-looking guy like you…” Crowley’s dry little tongue flicked out to touch his top lip. “You’d fit right in, that’s all I’m saying.”

Dean cleared his throat, and shifted awkwardly - his frustration, combined with a need to be polite, making him lose confidence.

“This is my home,” he repeated, hearing how dogmatically stupid he sounded. “Thanks for the offer, but really - I like it here.” Crowley was looking at him so pityingly that he felt he had to justify himself, somehow. “I’ve got my brother, my house… people know me…”

“Isn’t your brother a rising star in the legal world, these days?” Crowley cut in.

“Yeah?” Dean said; it came out half-proud, half-defensive. He swallowed.

“Mmmm,” Crowley said. “Commute’s pretty long into the city, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Dean said again - quieter this time. He’d thought of this, too, of course, and pushed it away. One day, maybe, he’d have to deal with Sam wanting to move out - but not yet.

“And the fastest road to the city goes right past -”

“Yeah,” Dean said, third time, sharply. He glared at Crowley. His intrinsic foreignness to Dean’s town was never more evident than when he tried to bring up Angel’s Hollow in casual conversation - as though he didn’t feel the wind on the back of his neck every time he said the words, even to himself, inside his own head.

“Shame,” Crowley said. “You’ll be quite bereft if he goes. Got any backup plans, Deano?”

“I’ll find something,” Dean said, and hated how bleakly it came out - how honest his tone was to the rawness he was trying to patch with wilful ignorance. He cleared his throat, and scowled. “I’ll take up a new hobby.” 

Crowley hitched on his smile again. “Needlepoint?”

“Ballet,” Dean deadpanned. “Anyway, I should be getting on…”

“Well, think about what I said - if the pas-de-one doesn’t end up so appealing,” Crowley said, careful not to let control of the conversation slip into Dean’s hands. “I’ll be off. Remember what I said - work past six, and it’s on your own time. Ta-ra.”

And he was gone.

Dean let out a long, long breath, and turned back to Old Beauty’s open hood. Conversations with Crowley always put him on edge. That same whiskered, smug face had smirked at him as he’d been forced to sign away the ownership of his garage, become an employee in his own space, just to save the place from closing completely - and now Dean had to be polite to Crowley, sure, but he didn’t have to like him.

He began to work, swift hands making easy work of the well-kept engine and its recurrent trouble. Little snatches of the conversation kept coming back to him, and making him grind his teeth.

_ There’s a good life out there, Dean. _

“Like I want his ‘good life’,” Dean said angrily, to Old Beauty - who was, he’d found, a solemn listener. “Like I want to go to Dallas and get rich under his thumb. Can’t you just see it? His little mechanic, his dumb pet hick.” He snorted. “Maybe that line works sometimes, you asshole, but not here. No, sir. Not me.”

_ Girls. Boys. In-betweens. _

The way he’d said it, sounding as though he was trying to be tempting, trying to titillate, made Dean shudder as he worked.

“Yeah, as though liking girls and boys and in-betweens is just for the good life,” he snapped. The old spark plug was out; Dean stomped over to his desk to set it down carefully. “Just for the rich dicks. As though I can’t like what I like in this town, right where I am. As though it’s not  _ real. _ As though the whole thing is just for…  _ fun _ . Asshole _. _ ”

_ You don’t get it, Deano… _

“No,” Dean told him furiously, setting the new spark plug into place with skillful fingers. “No.  _ You’re  _ the one who doesn’t get it. I don’t want the big lights and the fancy cars. I don’t need girls and guys and everyone else on me all at once just to get off on how fucking deviant I am, you dick. I don’t want to feel fucking  _ exotic  _ for liking what I like _. _ And I don’t want to be miles from home. You know what I  _ do  _ want?” He paused, reached into his back pocket, pulled out a wire brush and began to clean around the new spark plug, making sure he left it looking nice. “You really want to know? I just want - I just want to stop feeling like everything’s about to come crashing down on me, for once. I want to stop feeling like it’s all about to change for the worse and there’s nothing I can do. That’s all I want.” He put on a feeble attempt at Crowley’s accent. “That’s all I  _ bloody  _ want. And I wish to God that someone around here got that.” 

His voice got a little louder on that last sentence, and came echoing back to him from an empty corner of the garage; suddenly self-conscious, Dean cleared his throat. He patted Old Beauty. “Other than a car,” he finished, and kept working.

He worked on past six o’clock.  _ Whatever, _ he thought.  _ If it’s my own time, I’ll spend it fixing the crap I can. _


	3. Chapter 3

Ten o’clock arrived, and with it the eventual easing of the heat that had smothered Dean’s skin all day long. He left the garage, locking it up carefully, the key a familiar weight in his hand.

A lot had changed over the years; Crowley and the higher-ups in his chain company always had plenty of rebranding ideas to soup up the little warehouse building, but Dean had held tightly onto his key. The metal Led Zeppelin chain, worn smooth and dirtied by age, fit into the crook of his palm - just as it always had, since the day when his father had pushed the keys over the desk towards him for the first time and said, _you lock up, Dean._

Good thing he’d learned, Dean knew. Good thing he’d already known how to take care of the place as best he could, before John had stopped working there - after his mom had passed.

A stupid euphemism, Dean thought, angry with himself. _Say it properly. After Mom died. There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?_

In fact, it was - it still was, very much so.

Dean stepped back from the garage door and tried to shake the thoughts of his mother off. He didn’t want to come home to Sam all wrapped up in doom and gloom. Sam could always tell when he was in a dark mood, and Dean’s stomach tightened at the thought of Sam having to set aside all his own worries and troubles, just to help Dean deal with something that he _should_ have moved on from. That wasn’t Sam’s job.

Dean pulled out his phone and fired off a text as he walked over to his own car - a big black Impala ‘67, her paint gleaming slickly in the light from the outdoor bulb over the garage door. She was so beautiful as to be incongruous in the fusty glare, big and proud and ever-unchanging in a world of rust and dust and loss.

“You really class this place up,” Dean said to her, clunking open her driver-side door and getting in. She welcomed him with the scent of old car, familiar as a mother’s voice calling him home.

His phone buzzed as he closed the door behind him. A reply from Sam.

_Hey yeah that’d be great if you’re going. Need some salad stuff and smoothie stuff and maybe a pack of painkillers._

Dean snorted and rolled his eyes, but his face unconsciously relaxed into softer lines as he typed,

_ok health freak. stress headache?_

He turned the engine on, and closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying her rumble.

“Oh, Baby,” he said, “You know how to sing just right.” He turned on the radio, and the hard kick-in of a Blue Öyster Cult song started to play. “Mmmmm-hmm. Yup. That’s the stuff.”

His phone pinged; he opened the message, other hand drumming along to the song on the wheel of the car.

_Yeah. Maybe get some beers in too. It’s gonna be a long night for me_

Dean sighed.

 _right there with u if u need,_ he replied, and then threw his phone onto the passenger seat.

“Come on, Bloom,” he said, easing off the handbrake and rolling the car forwards. Her purr as she moved slowly was a bass note he felt in his bones. “Sing it to me.”

“ _Death comes sweeping through the hallway,”_ Eric Bloom obliged, and Dean sang along, because he was alone. “ _Like a ladies’ dress..._ ” He turned up the volume, so that he couldn’t hear himself. The car pulled out onto the main road, her engine thrumming into familiar gears, her accelerator begging to be pressed - and Dean, in turn, obliged her, kicking up the pace as he headed out to Walmart. They needed milk, too, he reminded himself - and he might as well pick up a couple of pizzas while he was there, in case he could tempt Sam into putting some real food into his stomach.

And real food, thought Dean, was grease and dirt - and all the things that the city boys at Sam’s law firm would probably simultaneously sneer at, and kill to be able to eat. Carbs and carbs and carbs. Rough and thrown-together food, home-cooked, fattening and delicious.

The Walmart parking lot was almost empty; Dean pulled into a space just a little too fast, showing off again for no one in particular. He shut off the engine and got out of the car, his mind already on the next day’s list of jobs. He had to pick up a Honda at nine to take a look at what sounded like a broken camshaft belt, and the accounts needed looking at...

He locked up the Impala and headed towards the bright lights of the store - lighthouse for all the lost shoppers, the hungry denizens of the early night. The air was tepid; though the heat of the day had been oppressive, it had at least kept away the cold-coffee feeling of the dark.

“Hey, Chuck,” Dean said, as he passed the familiar figure of a man sitting with his back to the wall of the store, his legs encased in a beaten-up sleeping bag. “How’s the book coming?”

Chuck blinked up at him, his wiry beard and curly hair dirtied by the streets on which he slept. He shrugged.

“I started a new one,” he said. “Actually, I wrote the first part ages ago, but I only just got back to it.”

Dean put his hands in his pockets, and shifted from one foot to the other. The promising light of the Walmart, which offered food and homewares and other safe, domestic things, beckoned him. Chuck, though, was always lonely - awkward, socially inept, and lonely. Dean cleared his throat.

“What’s it about?” he said.

Chuck shrugged.

“Traps,” he said.

Dean nodded.

“Well, we’re all in ‘em,” he said, to see how it sounded. Not too bad, he thought. Seemed like it could be true.

Chuck frowned at him. “You think?”

“Well,” Dean said. “You…” He gestured vaguely at the sleeping bag, wondering if this was the wrong thing to say. Chuck, however, brushed him away with a hand.

“Me, yeah, sure. But you? You’re in a trap?”

Dean paused, and thought about it for a second. A couple walked past him, their eyes flicking between him and Chuck, obviously trying to figure out what he was doing talking to the homeless little goblin with the dirty hair. Dean stared blankly back at them, mutely demanding to know if they had a problem.

Apparently they did not, because they walked away without comment.

“It’s a little town,” Dean said quietly, to Chuck. “Quiet place. Nothing much ever changes around here, and that makes it a kind of trap for people who are - a bit different.”

Chuck’s eyes narrowed.

“You’re talking about how you’re -”

“Yeah,” Dean interrupted. He found it embarrassing, somehow, when people said ‘bisexual’ - not because he was ashamed, but rather because he was ashamed of _them,_ of the way that their little noses turned up or their little mouths puckered or, at best, their little eyes lit up with excitement at the touch of the exotic.

 _Little, little, little,_ Dean thought. _Little town. Yeah, I’m in some kind of trap._

“It’s not just that, though,” he said aloud. “You know how I sold my garage to that big oil company?”

“Gas Ton? They own half the land around here, don’t they?” Chuck said. Dean was surprised; he hadn't thought that Chuck engaged with reality often enough to notice.

“Sure,” he said. “Well, their little asshole representative Crowley keeps bugging me to move out of town, make a life for myself. But that feels like a whole other layer of trap - along with something else that rhymes with 'trap'.”

“Gap?”

“Crap, Chuck.”

“- right, right.” Dean shook his head as Chuck considered for a moment. “Well, then, just stay here.”

“In town?”

“Yeah. Just stay in town. Except - the whole thing with feeling different...”

“Exactly. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

“If you left…” Chuck said, “it could mean - adventure.”

Dean wrinkled his nose, suppressing a scoff. The word sounded stupid and childish, spoken through the cold-coffee air.

“I don’t want… that. That’s Sam’s thing.”

Chuck blinked at him pensively. His eyes were always intense, and yet distant; they gave Dean the strange sensation of layers being peeled away, of seeing things both as they were and as they were not - of seeing the impossible superimposed over the banal. Chuck made him feel the weak and frayed edges of his own sense of reality, forced him to run his fingers over the loose threads and tug at them.

He also smelled terrible. Dean had bought him deodorant before.

“You could both have adventures.”

Dean shook his head.

“Adventures are only good when you’ve got somewhere to come home to,” he said. “I gotta take care of the house, I gotta… you know.” He gestured up towards the Walmart sign, trying to encompass his own domesticity with it.

“You think he’ll always need that?”

“Obviously not,” Dean said, the words rising up out of who knows where, the worry bubble suddenly bursting at an unexpected time - in the grimy parking lot, with the light from the sign shining weakly over the face of Chuck the Homeless Guy in front of him. “So it’ll just be me, fixing what I can fix and talking to the cars and missing him. That’s a trap full of bullshit. I’ll just end up like a crazy cat lady, or something.”

“Crazy car guy,” Chuck suggested.

“Crazy car guy. With no cats,” Dean agreed. “I’m allergic.”

The conversation lulled. Dean shuffled his feet on the cracked tarmac, and coughed awkwardly.

“Well, I should be, uh - yeah. Anything you need from in there?” He indicated the Walmart entrance with a dip of his chin.

Chuck’s face brightened.

“Toothpaste,” he said, and grinned to show browning teeth. “Diet of _whatever I can get_ isn’t great for the dental health. Oh, and a pen? I’m out, and I think I need to do some writing.”

“No worries. OK, one tube of toothpaste, one pen, coming right up.”

He headed into the Walmart, allowing the buzzing of the overhead lights and the background chatter of the bored staff fill his head. He picked up a basket and started to wend his way through the shelves, the usual sense of unreality dripping through him as he threaded his way around the store. There was a quality to the light that just made everything feel unnatural - the garish colours of the food packaging, the squeaking of the shopping cart belonging to a woman with outsize glasses and a perm, the ghostly blueish colour of Dean’s own hands where the warmth was washed out of his skin.

“No - we needed six eggs,” said a voice from far away.

“They’re too expensive,” snapped the reply. Dean shook his head, and tried to concentrate. Salad stuff, check. Smoothie stuff, check. Pain meds, check. Toothpaste…

He finished gathering what he needed and made his way to the checkout, managing to smile to himself when he saw a familiar face there - Garth, beaming at his customers, even at ten-thirty at night.

“Good evening,” Garth wished each one as they approached, bright-eyed as though it were nine in the morning in somewhere far prettier than their little Kansas hole. “How’re ya doing? How’s the wife?”

Dean waited his turn patiently. When Garth finally turned to him, his whole face lit up; Dean was suddenly aware of the forced happiness being offered to the other customers, when he compared it to the real thing he saw now. He found himself smiling reluctantly right back.

“Hey, Garth,” he said. “How’s it going?”

“Well, you know,” Garth said, “I’m just studying up.” He tapped his head. “Trying to gain a few brain cells, sorta thing. I’ve got my exams and interview coming up.”

“Think you’re gonna make Sheriff one day?”

“Think I’m gonna have to study my ass off just to have a hope of getting in the building,” Garth said cheerfully.

“You got that outfit you were telling me about sorted?” Dean said, trying to keep the amusement in his voice to a minimum.

“Aviators, check. Leather jacket, check. I’m gonna look as good as you do, except I’m gonna be doing it _cop_ style.”

“You know, I think there’s more to being a cop than -”

“I wanna look professional,” Garth said, starting to ring up Dean’s items. “Can’t be a Sheriff when I look like a beanpole hick in my farmer boots, can I?”

Dean narrowed his eyes.

“Quoting someone?” he said. “You know you shouldn’t listen to those big-city friends of yours.”

Garth eyed him shiftily.

“They’re m’cousins,” he said. “They know what they’re talking about -”

“They’re dicks,” Dean said. The person behind him in line made a small noise - it could have been affirmation or disapproval, Dean wasn’t sure. He didn’t particularly care. “You shouldn’t listen.”

“Oh, well, you know,” Garth said. “They’ve got their good sides.”

“Everyone’s got a good side,” Dean said. “Everyone everywhere has a good side. And they can still be dicks.”

“For what it’s worth,” said a voice from behind Dean, “I work in the Sheriff’s department two counties across, and I wouldn’t be thinking about your damn clothes if I was looking to hire. I’d want to know about your head. If you’re smart, that’s what I’d want. I’ve seen enough Sheriffs with farmer boots and sharp eyes to know they’re worth paying attention to.”

Dean swivelled. A tall man with dark skin, a shaved head and a stern mouth was waiting in line behind him, and fixing Garth with a look - a Look, Dean thought, with a capital L. He _meant_ it. Dean looked back at Garth, who seemed to be processing this.

“You work two counties over?” Dean said, to fill the gap. “How come you’re in town... sir?”

“Well, maybe you can help,” the man said shortly. “You know anything about Gas Ton?”

“Mmm,” Dean grunted. He began to bag his groceries, since Garth was still staring at the guy without speaking - a first for him, Dean thought.

“Yeah, thought so. They’re looking at buying up more land around here, but there’s someplace they can’t get their hands on. No detailed maps of the area, no apparent owner. They’re desperate, but they can’t make it work; it’s been in the local paper near us.”

“That’ll be Angel’s Hollow,” said Garth, who hadn’t been raised in town - but should still have known better, Dean thought, gritting his teeth as cold washed through him.

“They’ll never get their hands on that place,” he said abruptly. “It doesn’t belong to anywhere but its own self.” The hum of the overhead lights seemed to be getting louder.

The Sheriff eyed him as though taken aback by his forthright answer.

“Anyway,” he said, “I’m in town trying to find out what I can about Gas Ton, see if I can dig up any malpractice from ‘em while they investigate this place… this Angel’s Hollow. I don’t want the shit to spread, if you’ll forgive the farmer’s talk. When they reach my county, I want dirt on them that I can use.”

“Oh, yeah, no,” Garth said, nodding. “You should start with talking to Dean’s boss. Fergus Crowley, he calls himself. Little guy. Gives me shivers when he comes in.”

“Crowley won’t talk,” Dean said. “He’s an asshole, but he’s not stupid.” He finished packing up his groceries, and pulled a bunch of rumpled bills out of his back pocket.

“Would _you_ talk to me?” the guy said. He stuck out a hand. “Sheriff Victor Rogers.”

Dean took the hand, and shook it once.

“Dean,” he said. “And no, I won’t talk.”

He put the bills down beside Garth’s hand, and began to walk away.

“Don’t mind about Dean,” he heard Garth say. “He’s not much like the rest of us, I swear. Paranoid. You’ll find plenty of normal people who’ll talk to you. We’re all friendly around here…”

 _Friendly and stupid,_ Dean thought. _As though Gas Ton isn’t going to hear about this. As though there won’t be consequences. As though I don’t have a garage to keep alive and a wage to earn. As though talking about that place doesn’t bring ten kinds of trouble._

He emerged, birthed back into reality from the eerieness of the store, and gave the toothpaste and pen to Chuck.

“Chuck,” Dean said, “do you think I’m paranoid?”

Watery blue eyes looked him over distractedly; Chuck was already pulling out a battered notebook and clicking the pen, ready to write.

“Can’t be too careful around here,” was all he said. Dean nodded. Chuck was as much a part of the town as Dean, if not more; he knew the life, knew the people, knew the sound of its beating heart - the steady thrum of cars on the road and feet on the streets. Chuck wouldn’t talk about Angel’s Hollow, any more than Dean would.

Dean turned away, and walked back to the Impala.

He swung out of the parking lot, the great black car making a stately progress of the simple manoeuvre. Pulling out onto the main road, she felt suddenly joyous and burningly real, after the pale and milky unreality of the late-night shopping trip. Dean brought the music back in. He’d be home soon. He’d cook Sam some food, and eat something himself. Everything was normal. He didn’t have to worry. How much trouble could one Sheriff asking questions turn up?

And Eric Bloom sang,

“ _Death comes driving - I can’t do nothing -”_

And Dean bit his lip, and drove on.


	4. Chapter 4

_Two weeks later_

“Sam, so help me _God,_ if you don’t stop leaving your dishes in the sink for me to clean up, I’m going to start using the forks as darts and your face as the dartboard.”

“I ran water over ‘em! They needed to soak!” Sam called, from upstairs, voice echoing. He sounded slightly muffled. “Uh, where’s my jacket?”

“Which one?” Dean called back, raising his voice. He grimaced, and peered into the sink. Several dirty bowls peered back at him morosely from under a greyish film of cold water.

Dean shook his head - and then something caught his eye, and he looked again. Beneath the bowls, something else could just be made out - blood red on silver.

“My dark one! The one that matches!” Sam shouted. The floorboards creaked above as he paced from room to room, searching.

Down in the kitchen, Dean blinked into the sink, and reached in a hand, and extracted a sharp knife - with red on the point.

“Sam?” he yelled.

“It’s supposed to be hanging up!”

“Sam!”

“Did you move it?”

“ _Sam!”_

“ _What?”_

“If you _ever_ use a sharp knife to stab open the ketchup and then leave it at the bottom of the sink again, you’re doing your own washing up for the rest of eternity. Got it?” He walked out of the kitchen door, stepped over the mess of bags in the darkened hall, and peered upward.

Sam was leaning over the banister of the stairs, long hair flopping forward; he was wearing a white shirt, a tie, and a sheepish expression. Dean waved the knife at him, mock-threatening.

“Could’ve stabbed myself reaching in there,” he said. “Come on, that’s like, rule one of washing dishes. No lethal weapons floating around in the sink.”

“Sorry, Dean.”

“Mmmhmm. Well. Your jacket’s on the back of your chair in your room, I had it pressed.”

“Oh -”

“Your shoes are down here. They’re polished.”

“Hey, thanks -”

“And your tie’s not straight.”

“Well, neither are -”

“Don’t,” Dean said, waving the knife. “I’m the one who gets to do that today. No jokes from the brother who nearly indirectly made me lose a hand.”

Sam acknowledged this with a mildly contrite roll of the eyes and a grin, and disappeared in search of his jacket. Dean put one hand on his hip, and listened to him clattering around for a few moments, before there came a sound of triumph. He shook his head, let out a little sigh, and went back into the kitchen.

The countertops were smooth, white, plastic, and cheap. Dean placed the knife safely on the counter beside the sink, and then turned around to find the washing-up gloves. As usual, they were missing.

His miniature herb garden waved cheerful fronds at him from the windowsill, a light breeze from the open window ruffling the leaves of the tiny plants. Or rather, they _had_ been tiny, before Dean’s green fingers had brought them burgeoning out of their pots, white roots spreading out beneath and green cocktail-umbrella leaves unfurling above. Dean went over and snapped off a frond of chive, and chewed on it. The sharp allium taste almost made his eyes water.

“Mmm. Gotta make us some soup with you soon, huh?” he said. The chives dipped and swayed in agreement. “Chives… chives and… potato. And cheese, cheddar cheese. Maybe even some blue cheese. Fancy stuff. How about that?”

The chives seemed to like the idea.

“You’re talking to the plants again,” Sam said, appearing in the doorway. His face was a little flushed from running around upstairs, but he was grinning.

“Best company in the house,” Dean said airily, deadheading the dill flowers. Sam scoffed. In the lazy summer morning light, he looked younger than his twenty-one years.

“Sure. Could a plant talk to you for three hours straight about the case he’s got on the next day? Could a plant almost get your hand stabbed? I don’t think so. I’m clearly the better option, here.”

Dean smiled and walked over to the fridge, smoothing down the place in the floor where the linoleum always curled up.

“I like hearing about your cases,” he said; the fridge opened with a soft pop and a rattle of bottles. Dean pushed aside a six-pack of light beers, and grabbed the tupperware behind it. “They’re pretty cool.”

“Yeah,” Sam said, his face creasing. “They are. It kinda worries me. I know this training placement is supposed to be good for me, but I don’t have a lot of experience, and there’s _kind_ of a lot riding on this. You know, like… the course of someone’s life.”

Dean pulled the tupperware open, checked the sandwich inside was still fresh, and then pushed it into his brother’s hands.

“You’re going to do great,” he said. “You hear me? You’re going to be awesome. That girl - what was her name, Jennifer?”

“Jessica,” Sam muttered, as Dean went on,

“She’s in safe hands. You’ve researched the crap out of this, you’ve got everything you need in that file. It’s just a misdemeanour thing, right?”

“It’s a misunderstanding,” Sam said, a little fiercely. He put the sandwich box down on the counter, as if the emphatic sound it made could back up his point. “She was in the wrong place at the wrong time. You heard me last night - what I said about the conflicting statements. There’s no way that she deserves to be caught up in all of this. She’s a good person.”

Dean turned away, smiling to himself, and picked up the washing-up gloves.

“You’re gonna get her off,” he said. “And then you’re going to get her a coffee, probably. Am I right?”

He threw a glance over his shoulder, and caught Sam looking shifty and shy, and grinned wider.

“She’s nice,” Sam mumbled. “But like… it’s probably in violation of all kinds of… things… I just don’t know about. Codes of conduct. Policy. Legal… etiquette?”

“Not once she’s not your client anymore,” Dean said airily. When Sam raised an eyebrow, he shrugged. “I saw it on CSI one time. Or maybe it was Suits. One of those shows, you know.”

Sam snorted.

“I’m glad you’ve got such reputable sources,” he said, and Dean smirked.

“Reputable, huh? Now, there’s a five dollar word. Can you say it again, but in a less smarter way, Mister Lawyer?”

Sam rolled his eyes, but he was smiling - his nerves a little eased by Dean’s irreverence.

“As if I didn’t catch you reading freakin’ Homer’s _Iliad_ last night,” he said, and Dean shrugged.

“It’s a page-turner,” he said.

“It’s a five dollar book, is what it is.”

Dean conceded the point with a dip of his chin, and another little lift of his shoulders. Sam grinned at him, and then let out a quick sigh - Dean recognised him steeling himself for the journey ahead.

“Time to go,” he said, to give Sam the little push that he needed.

“Yeah. OK,” Sam said. He turned and headed back out into the hall, putting his hands on his hips and staring around at the assembled bags that he’d packed. Dean followed him, chewing his lip. “I think I’m ready.”

He turned to look at Dean - and there was something so small about him, in that moment, Dean thought. The suit fit him perfectly, the shoes were shined, the tie was neat - and yet he still looked like a little boy.

Dean cleared his throat, and blinked once, hard.

“So, you’re going to take the main road, right?” he said gruffly. Sam shrugged, and reached down to pick up a bag.

“Back way is faster,” he said, swinging it over his shoulder. “I don’t know, I might not risk getting caught in traffic.”

Dean frowned.

“Back way’s faster because no one uses it,” he said. “There’s a reason for that.”

Sam rolled his eyes and grabbed another couple of bags, and headed towards the front door.

“Dean, can you -”

“I’m serious,” Dean said, leaning past him to grab the handle and pull it open. Sam walked out into their front yard, where his company car - courtesy of the swanky legal firm he was working for - was parked. Dean eyed it with mild distaste; it was a silver, rounded, tame creature, that made the Impala beside it look like a wild thing. Sam walked over to it, pulled open the door to the back seats, and threw his bags inside carelessly.

“It’s just that old place that’s got you scared,” Sam said, his tone half-teasing.

“You go within two miles of the place and tell me there’s nothing weird about it, then,” Dean said caustically. “Sammy, I mean it. You can’t take the back road, it goes too close.”

Sam slammed the car door closed, and shrugged mulishly.

“I might,” he said. “And it’s _Sam._ ”

“Look, the amount of people we get coming through here with busted engines because they drove too close - and you know how they sometimes come with -” Dean swallowed. It felt too strange, too improbable to put it into words; instead, he simply made a claw of his hands, and dragged them through the air. “On the doors,” he said. “You’ve seen them.”

“Come on, Dean, I’m twenty-one,” Sam said. “Scare tactics don’t work on me anymore. We both know that’s got to be some kind of tree, or bush, near the road. There’s no way that _animals_ would attack a car like that.”

Dean shook his head.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he said. It felt too dangerous already to be fixing the cars that came through after breaking down near the Hollow; talking about it as well, and with disbelief, seemed like pushing thin luck too far.

“I never knew you were into this stuff,” Sam said, looking at Dean strangely - a little down his nose, Dean couldn’t help thinking. He lifted a shoulder self-consciously.

“Anyone with a brain is into this stuff, around here,” he said awkwardly. “You know that s’well as I do.”

Sam, in his sleek suit, with his shiny shoes, pulled a face.

“I know people from my firm would laugh at me if I told them I took the main road,” he said. “And they’d laugh even more if I told them why.” There was a look on his face - confusion, crossed with defiance - that told its own story. Dean understood. It had to be hard, being a small-town hick in a big-city job. There had to be people everywhere looking down on his brother, just for being who he was. Buying into local folk tales had to feel like proving all of them right.

“Just don’t take the back road,” Dean said. “And tell them you did. You’re a lawyer, right?” He tipped Sam a wink. “So lie.”

Sam’s worried face broke into a smile, albeit a reluctant one, and he began to walk around to the driver’s side.

“I’m going to be late,” he said. “I gotta leave.”

“Sam -”

“Dean, if you tell me not to -”

“Hey, hey,” Dean said, holding his hands up in mock-surrender. “I was just going to wish you luck, I swear.”

Sam pulled a complicated face at him - _I know what you were really planning on saying, and I’ve already got the point, so thank you for changing what you were going to say, but I can see through it._

Dean replied with a less complicated face, and Sam casually flipped up his middle finger in response before swinging himself into the car and starting her up.

Dean rapped a couple of times on the hood, and Sam revved the engine.

“You got this,” Dean mouthed through the windshield, over the roar - a thin, high, mechanical sound, compared to Baby’s low growl.

Sam nodded solemnly.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Phone?” Dean mouthed.

Sam gave him a hard look, reached into his pocket, and pulled out his phone. He waved it, eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” he replied, exaggerating his irritation. _Yes,_ **_Mom_** _,_ he would have said, Dean thought - if only circumstances had been different. If only casually mentioning their mother wasn’t too hard on both of them.

“Take care,” Dean said, and Sam threw the car into reverse, and pulled away. He waved, nicely, as he hit the road - and then drove away.

For several long seconds, Dean stood with his hands on his hips, watching the car grow smaller and smaller. He wished he could watch it all the way to the city, make sure Sam took the main road, make sure he was safe-

He clucked his tongue at himself, and shook his head. He spent too much time worrying, and he knew it. Sam could take care of himself.

There was nothing in the warm, soft heat of the June day to suggest that anything bad was going to happen; no ominous clouds, no thunder rolls. Even still, there was a catch in Dean’s chest-

And in the kitchen, small and seemingly insignificant, a carefully-made sandwich in a tupperware box rested on the counter. Dean had even made it on wholemeal; Sam had forgotten it completely.

Dean would find it later, and worry even more.


	5. Chapter 5

The morning passed slowly. The thick heat was back, soaking Dean’s t-shirt in sweat as he worked and making the air at the garage smell like burning rubber. He had been right about the camshaft belt on the Honda; it took longer to fix than a simple spark plug, so he settled in for a long afternoon with a hot cup of coffee on his desk, the fan on, and Eric Bloom singing to him again through the crappy ten-dollar CD player he’d picked up at a thrift store.

_“Home in the valley, home in the city…”_

Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked it; no messages. Still, there remained a nagging sense of something wrong, something he should be doing. It wasn’t in Dean’s head, but more in his hands and his legs and his chest. He was on edge - though on the edge of what, he wasn’t quite sure.

“ _Home isn’t pretty, ain’t no home for me…”_

He put his phone away and tried to focus on the Honda. It was a soulless little grey thing, and even Dean couldn’t muster anything to say to it. Hands on his hips, he considered it silently.

The fan on his desk began to whine. Dean frowned at it.

_“Home in the darkness, home on the highway…”_

He walked over to the fan. Its blades were still spinning - in fact, Dean saw, they were going more quickly than usual, more quickly than they should. It even looked a little dangerous. The whine was increasing in pitch as the blades whirled faster and faster and faster.

“ _Home isn’t my way, home I’ll never be - be - be - be -”_

Dean’s head snapped round to look at the CD-player. It had stuck somehow, one word repeating over and over again. The whirring of the fan was getting louder, too - when Dean looked back at it, he saw that the mechanism was starting to smoke, it was going so fast.

“ _be - be - be - be -_ **_be - be - be -_** _"_

Dean’s heart was thudding hard. He grabbed for the cable of the fan, and wrenched it out of the wall; it made no difference. He stared, disbelieving, as the blades only gained speed and smoked more. The metal was turning red with heat -

“ **_be - be - be - be - BE - BE - BE - BE -_ ** ”

Behind Dean, the Honda coughed, and then roared to life. The headlights came on, beaming straight across the garage to where Dean was standing, blinding him; he yelled as the engine’s roar filled the warehouse, and the CD-player kept singing its one word louder and louder, and the fan screamed as it reddened and burned - Dean put his hands over his ears, crouching, staring around wildly. He was paralysed by the sheer volume, by the shock of the din -

And then, all at once, it stopped.

Silence. The warehouse, dim and fusty, rang with it. Dean crouched, unsteady, staring wildly around the familiar space - searching for a reason, a meaning, a way to understand what had just happened.

And into the silence sang a little tinny voice - a mobile phone. The one in Dean’s back pocket.

For a moment, Dean was still frozen, and then - as though someone had pressed play - he pulled out his phone. _Sam._

Dean let it ring once more; one more ring’s worth of silence, of normality. This was it, he knew. He felt it. This was where it went bad.

He picked up.

“Sam?”

“Angel’s Hollow,” Sam said, his voice cracking. “Dean. I’m - Angel’s Hollow. Don’t - oh, God - Dean - there’s something in here with -”

The call disconnected. Dean blinked into nothing, the phone still pressed to his ear, his horror too great and terrible to comprehend.

One of the Honda’s headlights exploded. As though it were the starting gun at a race for his life, Dean heard its sharp report - and he ran.

*

The Impala’s familiar growl was loud and fierce as Dean tore down the main road, heading for Angel’s Hollow.

“God help me - God - let him be OK - Christ,” he muttered, a constant underlying panicked litany. One foot maintained constant pressure on the accelerator. He burned past the Walmart, past neatly-parked cars at the side of the road. The vents of the Impala rattled and clacked, fighting back the heavy heat. Dean’s sweat was sticking him to his seat. He wiped his forehead and his hand came away glistening. The sound of Sam’s voice was a broken record in his head.

_Angel’s Hollow. Angel’s Hollow. Angel’s Hollow._

The sky was painfully blue; the sun was as bright as the shine off a blade. Dean smacked his hand against the steering wheel.

“Come on, come on, come _on,_ ” he willed the road, begging it to disappear, to slide away faster under his wheels. God only knew what Sam had found in that place; why had he even gone there? Even if he’d taken the more dangerous road, why would he turn off into the Hollow itself? What had he _found_ there?

The road was interminable. Dean’s sweating didn’t abate; it worsened. He fumbled for his phone in slippery hands, tried to dial his brother’s number; it clicked immediately to voicemail, and Dean almost swerved into a tree round a sudden corner.

He swore, ripping the word out of the air with a voice sharp as a talon, and overcorrected - and overcorrected the overcorrection. And then he was hurtling off the tarmac and through scrubby trees, out of control, and his wheels were spinning and the brakes weren’t working and the trees around him were thickening and darkening - Dean, too shocked to cry out in the speed and bloodrush of the moment, sat wide-eyed with his back flat to the seat behind him, and the trees grew darker and darker. He stamped on the brakes again, the Impala’s growl stuttering as she clambered, ungainly and too fast, over rough terrain.

“Stop - stop - stop!” he yelled, finding his voice.

As though in response, everything went still.

The Impala's engine had cut out, and she was at a halt. Dean sat, shellshocked. He tried to take stock. He patted his own chest: unhurt. He blinked, and peered forward; the car, too, seemed undamaged. His hands were trembling. He remembered suddenly to breathe, and let out a gasp so harsh that it hurt his throat - and when it left his lips, it clouded.

Just for a moment, Dean’s breath was visible before him. He stared at it, watched it disappear - a light mist that soon dispersed into nothing. His heart was pounding. He inhaled, and let it go; again, it clouded. But that - that could not be, Dean thought. That was not possible.

“What,” Dean mumbled to himself, dizzied by shock. “What -”

A shiver went over his skin - Dean pulled his arms in around himself.

Cold.

He was _cold._

But it was high summer, in Kansas. How could he be cold? Just a moment ago he’d been sweating in ninety-degree heat. How could it - how could -

Dean put the back of his hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out, and tried to look around outside the car. Where was he? He didn’t recognise the shapes of the trees, the colour of them. Had he ever been here before? He squinted. He thought he could just make out a widening gap over to his left, which could lead to some kind of road. Sam was still in trouble, still needed Dean’s help. If he could just get back onto the road, he’d be on his way again.

And then, far away - but close enough to dry Dean’s mouth, to set the thud of his heart into sudden and panicked double-time, experienced strangely through a haze of fear-induced slowness - there was a sound.

One that Dean had never heard before, except on television screens and in the mouths of children playing; one that could not be done justice to in imitation.

A howl. The howl of a wolf.

And it was taken up; there were two, three, four of them - impossibly, undeniably, there were wolves in the woods with Dean. He felt a chill go through his blood, through his bones. His eyes widened in pure fear, the animal sound touching something primal.

He was moving before he’d decided to, his hand - shaking, trembling - grabbing for the key in the ignition. Clumsy, thick fingers. Blood rushing. Heart in his throat and his temples and, of course, his chest, most of all his chest.

The Impala’s engine suddenly roared to life in defiance of the voices of the wolves. She leapt forward at Dean’s touch on the accelerator; he spun the steering wheel desperately, trying to maintain control of her as she fled.

“Come on - come on, Baby, come on -” The car’s wheels found solid traction on a steady surface and pulled him out of the thick trees - back onto a road. “Come on, come on, we gotta get out of here -”

They blazed through the woods. Dean gripped the steering wheel hard enough to make his knuckles white, searching for anything that he recognised, anything that could direct him to Angel’s Hollow. Even as he thought the name, a more profound shiver went down his spine; the sweat on his back was chilling him, now, as it cooled too fast.

The radio clicked on, without Dean having touched it. A familiar song began to play, the guitar kicking in first.

“No, no, no, no, no,” Dean muttered, getting louder, his hand fumbling to shut it off; he pummelled uselessly at the buttons. The song played regardless.

A tree rose up suddenly in the centre of the road; Dean swerved, the back end of the car swinging crazily to avoid it.

“Easy, Baby, easy,” Dean said, his ribcage afire, protesting the fleet beating of his heart. “Come on -”

_“All our times have come…”_

The car was back on course, and she was angry at the delay the tree had caused her; she sped up. Beneath her wheels, brown was turning to white; above them, day was turning to night; snow and darkness were rising up to swallow them, and all Dean could think was - _if the bad shit is this way, I’m going the right way to find Sam._ He pressed on, his teeth ground together, tendons straining in his neck.

“ _Here, but now they’re gone…”_ the radio sang on, and Dean shook his head in silent protest at it, unable to stop it.

He saw it first in his sideview mirror - the wolf.

His whole body seemed to unclench and then retighten with pure fear. It was big - it was _too_ big, it was running too fast. Panicked glances at the mirror showed him only teeth, and dark dark eyes, and a pelt stained with blood, and _teeth._ It was level with him.

“ _Seasons don’t fear the reaper…”_

Dean thrust his foot against the accelerator.

“Baby, come on, we gotta go, we gotta go,” he said, his voice coming out strained and thin and desperate, cracking. There was snow falling from the sky, now, and he was too scared to feel the cold but it was a hand on the back of his neck. The mirror showed him two wolves, taller than Dean could bear without a little gasp of fear escaping him; the breath shivered into mist and faded. He kept driving, because there was nothing else but him and the wolves and the car and the road, and the only way any of them were going was on, on, on-

_“Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain - we can be like they are -”_

The Impala hit a ridge and for a second she flew, her wheels spinning uselessly. Dean let out a yell, and then they were back on solid ground with a crashing impact that shuddered his bones and rattled the soldiers in the vents of the old, old car.

He took a corner, and then another; the wolves kept pace. There was a third one, in his rearview. He had a clearer view of its scarred, pitted face; the pitiless hunger in its eyes. It was pure chase, it was thirst, it was need, and Dean was everything it wanted; he couldn’t take his eyes off it.

“ _Come on baby, don’t fear the reaper…”_

It snarled, and Dean’s gaze jerked back to the road. It was narrowing, the trees thickening even further beside them; the Impala’s metal body screamed as their stiff, snowy boughs raked along her paint, seizing for her. There was a terrible thud and a groan. Dean swivelled in his seat - the Impala lurching dangerously at speed - to see a wolf standing on the trunk of the car, claws scraping at the black paint. It was poised and dreadful and _huge._ And it was staring at Dean with bloodlust in its eyes.

“ _Baby, take my hand, don’t fear the reaper…”_

Dean swore viciously and tried to zigzag, tried to shake the creature off, but he couldn’t swerve hard enough on the narrow road to dislodge it. With a sick swoop of dread, he realised he could feel it snarling - could feel it in his hands through the steering wheel, its low growl deep enough to vibrate the car, sounding like a second engine. Dean was barely breathing.

“ _We’ll be able to fly -”_

The wolf raised a paw with claws that were ragged and torn and red, and smashed the rear windscreen in a single, horrifying blow. Dean’s yell was long, protracted, terrified; heedless of the blood gushing from skin broken by shattered glass, the wolf forced its head and shoulders into the car, jaws snapping for a taste of him. Its teeth were so close. It moved so fast, so stupidly fast; it was unbelievably real, thick pelt and yellow teeth and Dean could smell it, and it smelled like death, like death and blood and animalistic fear -

_“- don’t fear the reaper…”_

At either side of the road were two columns, approaching quickly as the Impala threw herself forward. Dean hit the accelerator one last time, and man and car and wolf went plunging onwards and through them.

“ _Baby, I’m your man…”_

The wolf was there, and then it was gone. As though it had hit an invisible wall that Dean hadn’t felt, its great hulking bloodbath of a body was twisted up and back and out of the car, deep into the snow behind. Dean drove on, eyes wild, staring into his rearview mirror; he couldn’t see what had happened, couldn’t even make out the body of the wolf on the ground.

He only realised that the music had shut off when he heard the frantic half-gasps and half-muttered whimpers that were coming out of his own mouth. He raised a hand and bit down hard on the back of it, trying to still himself.

There was no sign of the wolf, or of its friends, in the mirrors. Dean checked once, twice, three times, four - five - six, seven - before he pulled the car to a stop.

For a few seconds, he allowed himself to sit and bite his hand and shake, his mind a thoughtless blank slate of terror.

“Aaaah - God - fuck,” he said, his voice throated rough, burning with fear. “Shit!” His breath was a saw in his chest; he could barely see. The world was swimming. He closed his eyes, leaned forward, and rested his forehead on the steering wheel.

“Jesus,” he said, but quieter. “Jesus. Christ.”

The smell of the wolf was still in the car. Dean opened his eyes and checked the mirrors, to make sure it wasn’t behind him again - but there was nothing in the reflections except slow, soft-falling whiteness.

Snow.

A few flakes of it landed on the rear seat, falling through the broken glass. Dean tried not to let his gaze linger on the garish licks of red, on the blood that glazed the tips of the jagged edges. He took a deep breath, and released it.

“You’re OK,” he said to himself. “Christ. OK. Gotta find Sam. You’re OK.”

For the first time since stopping the car, he took a longer look out of the front windscreen, instead of looking back for the wolves.

And suddenly, helplessly, his mouth fell open.

He fumbled for the door handle, his eyes fixed on what lay ahead. Boots crunching on snow, he stepped out of the car, keeping one hand on her for comfort - because what he was seeing, even silent and motionless as it was, made him feel scared in a place that even the wolves hadn’t reached.

A castle stood before him. It was huge; it was _impossibly_ huge. Dean bent his head back, trying to find the place where the spires ended and scraped the sky - but they were too high, some buried to the hilt in the low cloud that was breathing snow down over them. The vastness of it, the unthinking, crushing size, left Dean feeling like a stick figure in his own skin - barely there, too small and fragile to be real.

The stonework of the castle was grey and shining with damp, dark and oily; it reeked of magic in a way that Dean felt rather than saw. On corners, gargoyles leered, their huge faces distended. Dean wondered if he would stand as tall as one of their lolling tongues, and thought not. Their teeth reminded him of a wolf’s.

He shuddered. The snow was falling onto his bare arms, raising goosebumps; he brushed away the wetness, but couldn’t push the cold out of his skin with it.

He lowered his gaze from the great spires, down and down and down and down, all the way to the front door.

It looked as though it were made of metal, and maybe four times as tall as Dean. He swallowed hard, just looking at it. Somehow, he’d wandered into a world of wolves and blood and snow in summer, and he was shaking - God, he wanted to go home -

But there in his mind, like a hand on his shoulder, was the voice of his brother.

“Angel’s Hollow,” said Sam in his head, cracked and scared. “Angel’s Hollow.”

This was it, Dean knew. This was what he’d been afraid of all these years - this place, it was Angel’s Hollow. It had to be. And that meant Sam was inside.

And that meant that Dean had no choice. He was going inside, too.


	6. Chapter 6

The slam of the Impala’s trunk reverberated in the air, muted only slightly by the continuous fall of the snow. Dean threw the tarpaulin he’d pulled out of it over the back of the car, covering the hole in her rear windscreen - good enough to keep the rain out of her for a few moments at least, he thought distractedly, his hands still unsteady with too much speed. A coat, he needed a coat… he pulled his black leather jacket out of the trunk, dropping it once before he managed to pull it on. He knew he was being ridiculous and needed to hurry, hurry, hurry inside, but his mind felt fogged by shock and he couldn’t think straight…

_ Can you ever?  _ said Sam’s voice in his head. Dean pressed a palm to his eyes for a second, and then sucked in a deep breath. When he opened his eyes, the world was in sharper relief.

_ Yeah,  _ he told himself.  _ It’s scary. But you can remember that later. _

A quieter, calmer part of himself rose up, took control. His breathing slowed. He could still feel the fear, the confusion, the terror - in his head, the wolves chased on - but his hands steadied. His mind cleared.

_ OK,  _ he told himself.  _ OK. I’m OK. _

He began to move, his boots crunching over the thick coating of snow on the ground. They were summer boots, not built to keep out anything much beyond dust on the road, and were already softening and chilling. Dean ran his hand over the Impala’s cold metal body for as long as he could, reaching back for her - and then, once he was too far away and cut untethered into the snowfall, he started to run.

The sound of his boots was muffled by the snow. The cold was tiny chilled needlepoints on his exposed cheeks, his hands, the back of his neck. He pushed his collar up higher, his breath coming harder as he picked up the pace. The front door of the castle was at the top of a grand stone staircase; Dean paused at the bottom, blew out a sharp puff of misty breath, and then ran up it - almost losing his balance on the sheened ice underfoot, sei z ing for the crumbling, rocky bannister, and feeling his palm skin burn at the touch of its chill. The slipperiness made him stumble like a child, but he pressed on.

He could see now that the door was made of wood, and stood at least three times as tall as he did. Dean approached it, eyes wide. His heart was pounding with the steady strength of exertion - and as he raised a fist to knock on the door, it suddenly faltered. In his head, he heard Sam’s voice on the phone - fearful, breaking.  _ There’s something in here with- _

Dean whipped around, certain that he’d felt eyes watching the back of his neck. No one there.

He swallowed hard.  _ Steady, now. And be quick. _

No knocking; if Dean was going to die here, it wasn’t going to be because he’d been stupid. He gave the door a hard shove, and with a groan and the click of a loose metal latch, it swung open a little way. 

Dean grunted, and leaned up against the door with all his weight, bracing his shoulder. He heaved; the door protested. He heaved harder, and with a rush and a clatter and a sudden give, he found himself inside.

For a second, he took stock. Ceiling: tall, impossibly far away. Chandelier. Gloom, everything in gloom. Beyond that, nothing his snow-blind eyes could make out.

“ _ Sam, _ ” Dean hissed.

Behind him, the door slammed shut. Dean jerked around to stare at it, his jaw clenched tight. He hadn’t done that - had it been the wind?

_ Have to be a strong wind to send a heavy door flying shut like that,  _ said a small voice in Dean’s head - one that Dean did his best not to listen to.

“Hello?” he said, as softly as he could. “Is someone there?”

There was no response. Except-

Dean swung back to face the hallway of the castle again, when he heard a noise - quiet, but not naturally quiet, like snow falling or pages turning. Tense quiet, like something that should have been louder was keeping itself in check.

“Hello?” Dean said, still trying to keep his voice down, in case he was jumping at ghosts. “I’m here for my brother Sam -”

He broke off to listen. There - soft, like the scratching of rat paws on wood. A barely-there murmur, a voice. 

In the darkness, a movement; Dean fro ze at the glimpse of strange, blueish light, quickly extinguished. The hairs on the back of his neck were raised; his heart thundered in his chest.

“Hello?” he said again.

No answer - and no movement, for one second, two seconds, three.

This was no good. Dean was wasting time watching shadows. He gritted his teeth, and headed towards the place where he had seen the blue light flicker - towards the right of the hall. His eyes were adjusting to the lighting, or the lack of it; the place felt darker than a tomb. 

He could see great paintings on the walls, and spindle-legged tables clustered at the sides of the room - the place would have looked like something from a movie, except that it was all coated in cobwebby dust, and seemed to fit too well and comfortably in its own skin to be a hastily-constructed set. It was old, Dean felt, shivering. 

He placed his hand on a pillar as he walked past it, and felt briefly connected to the castle as a whole; it felt cruelly big, intolerably so.

He took his hand away.

There was a door behind the pillar, and beside it, one of the fragile-looking tables. On it sat the source of the blue light that had startled Dean a few moments earlier - a strange, old-fashioned-looking candelabra. Although there were no candles in it that Dean could see, there was a definite ethereal glow coming from it; Dean’s hand, as he tentatively reached out to touch the thing, looked pale as death under its tint.

No candles in a candelabra that glowed. Snow in summer. Wolves in the woods -

Dean swung around again at the sound of -  _ something -  _ behind him. Like a cloak swishing on the floor, or a sigh out of too-big lungs. Whatever it was, it had come from up the stairs. Dean chewed his lip for a brief moment, and then grabbed the candelabra - it felt chill to the touch, unexpectedly so, but he didn’t drop it. 

By its blueish light, Dean navigated the steps, keeping to one side as though he could possibly hide on the wide, magnificent stairway. His every footfall raised dust, coating his soaked-through boots. A drip - whether melted snow or sweat, Dean wasn’t sure - rolled from his forehead and down his cheek.

Suddenly he froze. From somewhere high above him had come an echo: a voice that he recognised.

“Sam?” he called, more loudly than before - daring, his heart thudding. “Sam?”

He listened, still, every nerve razor sharp.

Muffled - yet almost certainly recognisable - that voice again.

“Sam?!” Dean shouted. “Where are you?”

From far away - the voice tiny and yet strident - a shout came like a pinprick of noise through the distance; it was a single word, deep and desperate.

“No!” came the cry. Dean was running before he’d even decided to, his feet pounding the way, his body knowing the only possible course. 

“Sam!” he yelled. “SAMMY!”

Spiral staircases - one, two. Down a hall, following the sound of the echo, of a renewed cry. Dean was an arrow flying true, all fear lost in the urgency of his purpose. One more stairwell, a helical ladder that climbed impossibly high; Dean took it step by step in stride, not noticing the burn in his muscles above the flame in his bones, the direness, the desperation within him. Somewhere, somewhere, his brother was lost and alone and shouting and if Dean could only  _ find  _ him -

Up, up, up. Up the stairs. Up the stairs. He ran and ran, dizzying himself, sickening himself. He couldn’t shout any more - couldn’t even open his mouth for fear of throwing up and stopping. He set his lips, sweated on - and on.

Until at last,  _ finally,  _ he found the ground beneath his feet flattening, widening. He was standing on a kind of platform halfway up the tower; above him were more stairs, below him more stairs, and to the sides were no rails or handholds to steady him - but on his left, a cell with a barred old metal door. And behind the bars, looking tall and gangly and young and terrified and brave, was  _ Sam. _

Dean dropped the candelabra with a heavy  _ thunk.  _ It rolled a few feet away.

“Sammy?” Dean said, weak-kneed with sudden relief, head still spinning. He barely registered the shock on his brother’s face, the way that his presence didn’t seem to lessen Sam’s fear - but rather increase it.

“ _ Dean?”  _ Sam croaked. He was standing up behind the door, and his fingers came up to wrap round the bars.

“I’m here - I’m here,” Dean said, striding up to the barred door in two swift strides and pressing his palms against it. Sam grabbed for his fingers, pinching them against the metal as though trying to check that Dean was real. His eyes looked wild; his tie and jacket were gone, and his shirt looked ruined, but Dean could see no signs of injury. “Fuck - I thought you were dead -”

“Dean,” Sam said, interrupting him. Dean watched his little brother’s lip tremble as he spoke; the sight of Sam’s visceral fear stirred terror low in his gut. “Dean. You have to run. You have to get out of here.”

“What?” Dean demanded. His eyes searched Sam’s face for a second, and then looked down at the door itself, trying to check for a padlock or a bolt.

“I said, you have to get out of here.” Sam sounded painfully serious; Dean ignored that as best he could.

“Sam, we’re in fucking  _ Angel’s Hollow.  _ You called me, remember? I drove here - where the - how the hell do you get this door open?”

“Dean,  _ listen  _ to me. We aren’t alone. There’s something - there’s something in here -”

“A wolf?”

Sam grabbed for Dean’s hand again, through the bars; he missed, and managed to grab a little handful of Dean’s leather jacket collar instead. He pulled Dean in close.

“Worse,” he whispered. The light over his face flickered and darkened. “You’re not listening to me. Dean, it’ll  _ hear you.  _ It’s everywhere. It’s everywhere, it’s - it’s too big - you  _ have to run.  _ Forget about me, just  _ run… _ ” 

But the last word ended on a long, long groan. Dean, alarmed, pulled back from the door - and then he saw that Sam’s gaze wasn’t loose and unfocused, as he’d first thought. Rather, it was fixed on something behind Dean, over his shoulder, up and above in the higher tower.

Dean stared into Sam’s face, not wanting to turn round, not wanting to see it.

Sam, who couldn’t seem to take his eyes off it - whatever it was - managed to whisper to his brother, even still.

“Run,” he said, into the silence. “Dean.” He choked over the name. “Run.”

That would never happen. There was no chance in hell - and hell, it seemed, was here - that Dean was leaving Sam behind.

Slowly, so slowly, he turned.

At first, he saw nothing - only that the great window set into the tower on one side opened onto a far darker sky than he remembered; the only light, now, was coming from the candelabra that lay on the floor a few feet away. 

Dean squinted - was sudden night another one of this place’s dark magics, like the snow and the wolves? The moon was an angry, bright orb; smaller and stranger - bluer, somehow - than Dean remembered ever having seen it before. He could have sworn he almost felt its cold glare chilling his snow-soaked skin.

And then - impossibly - the moon  _ blinked. _

Dean sank to his knees. 

The night itself was moving. The darkness at the window shifted, moved with conscious purpose. The moon - the moon had a twin, and together they blinked again;  _ eyes,  _ supplied Dean’s brain helplessly. Eyes in a face that Dean was trying to pick out and couldn’t, a face that was hidden in shadow. He couldn’t make sense of shapes, of distance; the creature was roiling darkness and eyes and nothing else, huge and incomprehensible - until suddenly it sprang from the ledge under the window to a far, far closer beam over Dean’s head. 

It  _ screamed _ . The noise it made was high-pitched, a screech torn out of the world’s pain, a roar of boundless loss and anger. Over the edge of the beam, blackness rolled and swirled and boiled, snapping and flailing.

Dean couldn’t yell; couldn’t breathe. His face was creased in abject terror, a silent cry of his own hanging his mouth open.

“Dean!” he heard Sam’s voice as though from far away. “Dean, just  _ run!” _

The scream ended, and Dean still couldn’t move. The creature was above him, waiting.

_ Sam,  _ said a voice in his head, the tiny persistent one that he was coming to rely on.  _ Get Sam out. _

“Who -” Dean swallowed his first attempt at speech; it was too shaky to be understood. “Who are you? Let - let my brother go -”

The creature made a different sound - guttural this time, low enough to shake the stones under Dean’s shock-weakened legs.

“It doesn’t - speak, it doesn’t ever speak -” Sam managed to say, through fear-breaths. “Dean, for God’s sake, I can’t - just - just run -”

“Talk to me!” Dean said, through teeth clenched hard enough to make bone bleed. He tried to meet the creature’s blue eyes, and could barely stand to. 

The creature watched him, silent.

“You’ve stolen my brother!” Dean yelled. “The least you could do is - is talk to me! Tell me what you are! Are you going to kill us or what?”

Darkness furled furiously above, and then -

**Be Not Afraid.**

The voice went through Dean like the lowest bass note, bone-shuddering, heart-throbbing. It  _ hurt -  _ no, it was on the other side of pain, deep and powerful enough to destroy too fast for pain to begin.

Dean felt a moment’s gladness that he’d already fallen to his knees; it disguised the way he was trembling from head to toe, and bizarrely he  _ still  _ had space in his mind to hope that Sam didn’t know how scared he was.

“I’m - I’m not afraid,” Dean lied furiously. “I just want my brother back.”

Above, the creature’s eyes moved slightly, as though the creature were tilting its head.

**He Is A Thief.**

“What?” Dean demanded. “No. Not my brother.”

**He Is A Thief.**

The creature was insistent. Dean’s hands balled into fists.

“You’re lying!” he snapped. “He wouldn’t steal. Just let him go - whatever you are!” His lungs themselves felt as though they were collapsing in fear, but he held his position rigidly in front of his brother.

The creature leapt. In a great miasma of dark - the shadows too quick and swiftly furled for Dean to be able to understand their nature - with the blue-moon eyes as pinpoints of brightness, it tumbled downwards. It landed on the platform not far away from Dean, and somehow it was all the more terrifying that there was no juddering impact. It landed as lightly as a falling feather. For a being of such size to stop so gently - what kind of power would be needed for that?

Dean scrambled to his feet and backed up against the cell door.

“Don’t touch him,” he said. Wreathed in shadow, the creature drew itself up - tall, far too tall, at least fifteen feet.

**He Is A Thief. He Must Stay. It Is The Punishment He Owes.**

“Sam, what is it talking about -”

“I - I don't…”

“Why is it saying -”

“I took something,” Sam said, and Dean went still. The creature, in front of them, seemed to be listening. Part of Dean wished he could see more of it; part of him was glad he could not.

“You - you took -”

“I was hungry,” Sam said. “Out in the grounds - there’s an apple tree. I just took one.”

“And it’s keeping you here because -”

**Because It Is The Punishment He Owes. He Must Stay.**

“I was just hungry,” Sam said. “I didn’t even know this place belonged to anyone, I didn’t know - I didn’t mean to steal -”

“Stay for how long?” Dean demanded, when Sam’s explanations seemed to be having little effect.

**Forever.**

Dean’s hands were clenched again. His mind-numbing fear was receding as the creature proved able to speak, able to think; it was less terrifying, now, but more hateful.

“What’s wrong with you?” he said furiously. “He’s just a kid and he was hungry. Were  _ you  _ going to eat all the apples?”

**The Apples Are Not For Eating. That Is Irrelevant. He Will Stay Forever.**

“No,” Dean said, shaking his head. “No. I won’t let you keep him.”

“Dean -” Sam sounded a little helpless.  _ There's hunger talking,  _ thought Dean to himself. “There’s nothing you can - look, maybe it’ll let you go if -”

“Take me instead,” Dean said, and the world seemed to shift around his words, as though he’d dropped a stone into water. The silence that consumed them - standing as they were in the tower, just the three of them, so small compared to the castle, to the town, to the world, and yet so important - was terrible and redolent. 

_ Here,  _ it seemed to say.  _ Here is a thing that was worth saying. No one speak for a while. Here is a thing worth saying. _

“No…” murmured Sam, breaking the spell. Dean frowned, and repeated himself.

“Take me instead,” he insisted.

For the first time, the creature spoke with something a little less than absolute certainty.

**You would… take his place?**

Dean nodded.

**Why?**

With a look of confusion imbued with disdain, Dean shook his head slightly.

“He’s my brother,” he offered as explanation. Nothing further was needed. The creature seemed to draw itself up, pull itself back together.

**If You Would Truly Prefer To Take The Place Of Your Brother, It Shall Be So.**

Dean swallowed.

“You - I want to know what I’m getting stuck in here with,” he said, and swallowed hard. “Come into the light.”

The creature paused. On the ground, the candelabra was still giving off its soft blue glow; just a few paces forwards - if the creature was even capable of paces. For a second, Dean thought it was going to refuse - and then, with that lightness of step that was strange and eerie considering its si ze, it came forward.

The light - the light didn’t  _ help.  _ Dean understood no better what he was seeing. The creature’s face was barely face-shaped; wreathed in darkness, its blue eyes shone out of a black hole of a body. Dean heard himself gasp, and struggled to hold his ground. 

The creature blinked, in a way that might have been impassive.

“Dean,” Sam said.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Dean said unsteadily.

The creature acknowledged this with a tilt of its moon-eyes.

“No,” said Sam again, more insistently. “Dean - there’s not a chance in hell you’re getting in here instead of me. Look at me for a second, will you?”

Dean glared at the creature.

“Will you kill me if I turn around?” he asked.

**No.**

“Is that a lie?”

**I Cannot Lie.**

Dean narrowed his eyes, but he turned anyway. Sam’s expression was set in stone, resolute.

“Dean, listen to me -”

“No, Sam, you listen to me. You got… you got so much to live for out there in the world where all this weirdness isn’t - isn’t happening.”

“Dean, you’re not - there’s got to be another way. It’s this place, it’s making us think in fairytale logic, it’s - it’s messing with us - there has to be another way out -”

**There Is Not.**

Sam managed enough annoyance to pull something close to one of his trademark dry expressions. Dean thought he was going to laugh to see it, and it came out as a bitten-back sob.

“It’s gotta be one of us in here,” Dean said. “Maybe forever. And it’s obvious, isn’t it? It’s going to be me.”

“Why would that be obvious? I’m the one who stole -”

“Sam, listen. I’m a has-been, and I always have been, OK?” Dean said, speaking rapidly now. It was good, and also not good, he thought, how quickly the words to seal his own fate rose to his lips - how easy self-condemnation was. “I’m a square peg in a round hole out there. I’m washed out already. But you, you got your city job, you got your lawyer thing, you got - you can find a nice girl, marry…”

“You could do that just as much as I could,” Sam said, and he sounded angry. “Don’t fucking talk to me about girls not going for bi guys, either. I hate this. I fucking hate this. It’s all wrong -”

“It’s not about the bi thing, it’s about -”

The creature shifted behind them, and Dean’s heart quailed. For a second, there, they’d been getting into the rhythm of one of their usual bickering matches.

“Go home, Dean,” Sam said. “I won’t let you stay here. I  _ won’t.  _ Just go home. Just - just make a good life for yourself. You think I could ever be a lawyer knowing that you’re in here? You think I could get married, you think I could - fucking -  _ get married _ ?” Sam pressed a shaking hand over his eyes. “I’m the one who got into this mess. I should take the punishment for it.” He set his jaw. “I’d fight you before I let you put yourself in here instead of me.”

Dean let out a breath.

“You know, I made you a sandwich,” he said hollowly.

Sam frowned.

Dean turned to the creature.

“I’ll go,” he said. “If you’ll let me. It’s what he wants. Right?” He checked back with Sam.

Sam nodded fiercely. “Yes. Good. Thank - thank God - just go.”

**You Are Permitted To Leave. Take Nothing. Go.**

Dean bit his lip.

“You’re really not going to let me say goodbye to my brother?” he said. “I’ll never see him again - you want me to wave goodbye through bars?”

There was a moment of silence; once again, the creature seemed wrong-footed.

**You can have a moment,** it said quietly, its voice hardening as it added, **No More.**

With a curve of darkness, a beckoning, it swung the door open. Dean didn’t waste time; he hustled through the door, and pulled Sam into a fierce hug.

“Hurt?” he said.

“Nowhere.”

“Anywhere?”

“No,” Sam said, completing their usual little ritual phrase. “Dean - it’s OK. I swear I don’t want you to come back, or - or look for me -”

“I know,” Dean said softly. Out the other side of the cell, he saw, was an opening - but it fell down into sheer blackness, and there was a good six-foot gap before the spiral staircase curved against the wall of the tower. He wondered how far down it went. “I made you a sandwich.”

Sam managed a laugh. “Should’ve remembered it, shouldn’t I? Wouldn’t have wanted that apple.”

Dean nodded against his shoulder.

“Eat it when you get home,” he said. 

“What?”

“Water my plants - be safe -”

“Dean… what…?”

With a sharp shove from Dean, Sam was out the door of the cell; Dean rammed the metal barrier closed behind him, locking himself inside. Sam, thrown off-balance, fell to the floor outside the cell - but immediately he was rolling to his feet, tearing at the cell door.

“No -  _ no! _ Dean, you  _ swore -  _ you said you’d go home - you said -”

“Hey, hey - stop, it’s OK, look at me -” Dean said. Sam didn’t listen; he was making his hands chafe and bleed, trying to haul the door open. “Sam - SAM -”

**It Is Decided.**

The creature lifted Sam in a coil of darkness, as though he weighed nothing.

“Don’t hurt him!” Dean yelled. The creature’s ga ze was brutal in its coolness.

**Be Not Afraid,** it said, and carried Sam away.

In the cell, listening to the sounds of Sam fighting all the way down the stairs and out of the castle, Dean crumbled to the floor - and in great, sobbing, shuddering gasps, he wept.


	7. Chapter 7

Sitting on the edge of the cell opening, Dean contemplated the drop.

It was far enough to kill him - he knew that much for certain. It fell away endlessly under his dangling feet.

The thing was, Dean knew, Sam wouldn’t just let it rest. He wouldn’t stop trying to come back. He wouldn’t be able to live with himself, knowing that Dean was in here; he’d even said as much. 

But if Dean wasn’t trapped in here - if Dean was - well,  _ gone  _ -

The drop looked so long.

Would the creature go back for Sam after Dean was gone? Dean didn’t think so. He felt as though once Sam was safely back in their home, the creature wouldn’t be able to touch him; it hadn’t been able to hurt either of them for all of these years, after all. Sam would be able to put all of this behind him, just so long as he didn’t have Dean as a weight chained to his ankle, dragging him back.

Dean braced his hands against the ledge, and shifted himself closer to the fall.

A breath of wind whispered up the tower, swirling. Dean took it into his lungs, cold and true - maybe the last taste of outside air he’d ever have, he thought, the idea di zzying. 

_ No. Don’t think. Just do. _

He could see Sam’s face in his mind, looking horrified at what he was about to do.

“I gotta,” Dean said aloud, the small words wretched and pathetic in the grand space. “I gotta do it.”

His heart - abused and in shock after the terror of the wolves, the creature - began to pick up its pace unsteadily, as though uncertain about continuing at all.

_ Dean - don’t - _

“Sammy, I gotta,” Dean said, to the Sam in his head. Closer to the edge. “It’s OK. It’s all OK.”

_ It’s this place, it’s making us think in fairytale logic - it’s messing with us - there has to be another way - _

“This isn’t a fairytale,” Dean said. He was teetering, now, the proximity of an irreversible decision making his head spin. His pulse seemed to have finally picked up on his resolution; it was sounding out a panicked drumbeat.

“I gotta,” Dean murmured, one more time.

He was on the brink of letting go.

“Well, I sure think not,” said another voice, and Dean almost toppled off the ledge accidentally in shock. 

He grasped for the edge of the stone, steadying himself, and turned around - and saw, behind him, a figure standing. It had its hands on its hips.

Dean blinked.

The figure was blueish-white, translucent, and definitely shaped like a human.

“You’re a ghost,” Dean said dumbly.

“Always the first thing people notice,” the figure said. “Is it that obvious?”

“Well - you’re - I can see through you?” Dean found himself saying apologetically. The figure seemed to solidify a little in front of his eyes; it was a woman, he saw, with long light hair pulled back into a ponytail and a cop’s uniform on.

“How’s that?” she said, and raised her eyebrows with a smile. Dean stared at her, wondering what kind of hellish nightmare he was living in that he found the ghost to be recognisable, relatively normal, and even vaguely comforting. She looked like ghosts did on TV.

“It’s - it’s good,” he said. “Um - who are you? Where did you come from?”

The woman’s smile widened.

“We’re already acquainted, actually. Thanks for the lift up the stairs and all.” She pointed down at the candelabra on the ground, outside the cell; Dean frowned over at it.

“You - that was - you?” he said weakly.

“Sure thing! Nice to meetcha properly, though. What’s your name? I’m Donna.”

“Dean…”

“Oh! My uncle’s second boyfriend was called Dean. He sure was a card. Used to fish in the lake behind his house en-ay-kay-ee-dee. But he had great taste in sweaters.”

Dean relaxed infinitesimally.

“He sounds like a nice guy,” he said.

“Oh, yeah. But my uncle broke up with him on account of realising he was still in love with his first boyfriend. My uncle was, that is. Dean wasn’t in love with his first boyfriend. Well, not that I know of. Say, are you gonna be moving away from that ledge any time soon?” The question came quick as a cat’s paw striking through the wool of her chatter; Dean blinked, remembered where he was, and scrambled back from the edge.

“Sorry,” he said, inconsequentially.

“You were givin’ me kittens,” said Donna comfortably. “So, are you ready to see your room?”

“My room?” Dean repeated, getting to his feet. He glanced around the bare cell; there was a bucket off to one side, and that was the extent of the furnishings.

“Sure! You didn’t think we’d be leaving you up here forever, did you?”

Dean blinked.

“I - I hadn’t planned on…” He glanced back towards the edge of the cell, at the drop.

“Mmm,” said Donna thoughtfully. “Y’know, it’s not much fun being dead. I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“I’m trapped here,” Dean said hollowly. “Forever.”

“Yup!” Donna sounded absurdly chipper about it. Dean lifted a shoulder.

“And my brother - if he knows I’m alive in here, he’ll come back, but if I’m dead…”

A new voice suddenly sounded, more strident than Donna’s - and a second ghost walked through the wall of the cell.

“And how’re you gonna tell him you’re dead and he doesn’t need to come back, exactly? Planning to do a lot of message delivery after you’re a little pancake on the ground down there, are you?” 

Dean fell back against a wall, blinking at the newcomer.

“Jody, that was graphic in all the wrong ways,” Donna said with a touch of reprobation in her sunshine tone. “Ignore her, Dean, she’s an old grouch.”

“I’m stating the obvious,” Jody said. She looked a lot less substantial than Donna did, barely visible by comparison, but Dean could make out short, darker hair and a stern mouth.

“You insist on doing that when no one wants you to,” Donna scolded. “Frowns bring you down but smiles go for miles, that’s what I always say.”

The Jody-ghost rolled its wisps of eyes.

“Rhyming doesn’t make things righter,” she said.

“But it sure does make them sound much nicer!”

“That wasn’t even a rhyme -”

“Half-rhyme, Jodes. It counts.”

“It counts as a pain in my ass.”

Dean, who had been enduring their exchange in numb silence, seemed to be suddenly remembered; Donna turned back to him, her eyes wide.

“Bless, but he’s shivering. We’ll put him in the East Wing.” Dean only realised as she said it that his teeth were chattering. “Come on, kiddo.”

Dean, too disconcerted  to do much beyond follow orders, made to walk with her out of the cell - and then came to an abrupt stop when, rather than using the door, she simply disappeared through the wall beside it.

He blinked after her for a second, and then turned wordlessly to the Jody-ghost.

“Give it a second,” she said dryly.

Dean turned back to the wall.

“Three… two… one…” Jody counted down, the words as thin in the air as lace.

“Oh! You’re not a ghost!” came Donna’s stronger voice, sounding amused. “I forgot! Hang on -”

There was a clunk, and a creak, and then the door groaned open. Dean stared at it.

“You walk through it,” said Jody helpfully.

“Right - yeah -” Dean said. “The - the  _ thing _ \- is it coming back?” He was sure that the cell presented no real refuge from a being of that much power, but for Dean’s own peace of mind, it had felt briefly reassuring to have bars between him and it.

Jody looked at him askance.

“That  _ thing  _ lives here,” she said. “It’s his home. Safe to say he’ll be around.”

Dean swallowed hard.

Donna’s head reappeared through the wall; the wrongness of it turned Dean’s stomach.

“Stop hangin’ out here without me!” Donna said brightly. “Come on!”

“You’re as safe out there as you are in here,” Jody said succinctly, accurately reading Dean’s hesitation. “Also, there’s a bed.”

There wasn’t much choice, Dean thought, not really. 

He followed Donna out of the cell.

“Pick up her candelabra, would you?” Jody said, as Dean made to walk past it. “She’s forgotten to ask you. She’ll be no good in the kitchen if it’s left up here.”

Dean didn’t understand this - didn’t understand anything - but he did as he was told. Silently, he followed Donna and Jody down the stairs, along a corridor, down some more stairs... the place was just as terrifyingly huge inside as it had seemed outside - it was only that from the outside it was a unified behemoth, and on the inside it was a labyrinthine monster made of many parts.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a finer pair of young men than you and your brother, I must say,” Donna said cheerfully, filling the silence. “Tall and ever so good-looking. How big’s the pack?”

Dean looked at her, alarmed.

“Oh, no! I meant - six-pack, eight-pack…” Donna trailed off; Dean couldn’t help but feel a little brush of warmth for her under his fear and confusion.

“Donna, you could learn to keep your mouth shut for once,” said Jody, and Donna nodded ruefully.

“That’s definitely the case,” she said. “Didn’t mean to make you feel weird, there.”

Dean cleared his throat.

“S’alright,” he said. “I’m already feeling a little weird, so…”

Jody snorted; Donna grinned at him. “Well,” she said. “It’s nice to see a spot of humour there. Getting your head twisted back on right after the shock, huh?”

“Something like it,” Dean said - and in truth, the lightness of Donna’s chatter, and the sardonic quiet of the Jody-ghost, too, really was helping him to feel more normal.  _ Sure,  _ he thought to himself.  _ I’m trapped forever in a castle with some kind of evil creature, but it’s not so bad. I could be trapped forever in a castle with some kind of evil creature and also a cat. Then I’d be sneezing, too. _

“Real nice place you have here,” he remarked, noticing a spiderweb the length of his arm in one corner of a stairwell as they passed. Jody bristled.

“It’s in the Rococo style,” she said. “Eighteenth-century French.”

“Ooh, la la,” Donna said, with a wink. Jody gave her a flat look. She appeared a lot more substantial now, Dean realised, than she had in the tower; he could make out her dark eyes, her slight crow’s feet, her uniform - also a cop, he thought. There was so much he didn’t understand.

“French?” he managed. “But - we’re in Kansas -”

“You may have noticed that your host isn’t exactly tied by traditional parameters,” Jody said dryly. “Pick up that clock on the sideboard, would you?”

Dean shifted the candelabra in his grip, and did as he was asked. The clock was beautiful, ornately worked in wood and metal.

“Jailer,” he said softly.

“Hmmm. No, it’s a clock,” Donna said seriously. 

Dean shook his head. “No. I mean, it’s not my host… that thing. It’s my jailer.” He held the clock carefully, keeping his eyes on the two ghosts. They stood in front of him, both frowning. “Are you trapped here too?”

Donna and Jody shared a look - one with years of understanding behind it, Dean sensed, heavy with a thousand things they weren’t going to say.

“Let’s get you to your room,” said Donna brightly. “Bring us along, would you?” She indicated the candelabra and the clock in Dean’s hands. 

He shook his head in confusion, but did as she asked, carrying them in ungainly fashion across what felt like the length and height of the entire castle - until eventually, the dark and gloomy corridors began to melt into lighter tones.

“There, now, this is more like it, hmm?” Donna said. “Just through this door…”

Slowly, with a sense of grandeur, the door swung open. Beyond it, Dean saw, was a room that seemed to be made out of sky - the sky at dawn, rosy pink blushed with shy blue, and deft touches of purple bringing out the shadows. The ceiling was painted with images of clouds, and between the clouds were little angels with golden hair. Hanging from the ceiling was a chandelier, also golden - it was leafy and delicate, the most beautiful craftsmanship that Dean had ever seen. There was a bed, a big four-poster like the ones Dean had seen in films, and a fireplace, and a wardrobe with tiny, intricate reddish flowers painted onto its light green-grey surface.

“What is this place?” Dean said, and heard wonder in his voice. He felt clunky and overly masculine in it, his boots too big, his hands too dirty. He set the candelabra and the clock down on the wardrobe.

“It’s your room,” Jody said smartly.

“I like to think of it as the heart of the castle,” Donna said. “Maybe you’ll find you fit right in.” She gave him a warm smile. “Either way, there’s a bed. And this is where the light gets in.” She nodded her head towards the wide window, through which a soft sunset light was spilling over the furnishings, bringing out the touches of shine and gold.

“Charlie?” said Jody, walking - well, floating, Dean noticed now - over to the wardrobe. “Charlie, wake up. There’s someone here. Company.”

Dean frowned, taking an instinctive step backwards as the wardrobe began to glow - the same ethereal blue light as the candelabra had given off, before - and then, rising out of the wardrobe as if from a bed, a third ghost appeared.

She stretched. Dean stared.

“Company?” she - Charlie, Dean remembered - yawned. “We don’t do company, my guys.”

“We do now,” Donna said, triumphant. She did a little ghostly twist of excitement, and then moved over to Dean, placing a hand on his shoulder. Dean felt nothing from it but a slight tingle of cold. “This is  _ Dean.  _ He’s…”

“Alive,” Charlie said, standing up suddenly. She was short, Dean realised. Short, and pretty, and bright-eyed. “He’s alive. Holy crap.” She didn’t move over to Dean so much as appear beside him suddenly, too quick for his eye to follow, and she stuck out a hand. “Charlie Bradbury. Dead. Nice to meet you.”

“Uh,” Dean said, and held out his hand. To his surprise, Charlie’s touch was tangible; a bare whisper, but definitely there. He shook her hand. “Dean. Alive, for now. Nice to meet you.”

She smiled, and it was charming rather than scary - odd considering that it was coming from a ghost. Dean couldn’t really muster a smile in return, but he winced in what he hoped was a good approximation.

“Come and look at these hangings,” Jody said suddenly, as though acting on a cue. She guided Dean away from Donna and Charlie, towards the big old bed. “Look at them. They’re very authentic.”

“Right… yeah,” Dean said. Behind him, he could hear Donna and Charlie talking quietly.

“ - keep him away from the window,” he heard Donna murmur.

“He’s going to try to escape?” said Charlie, sounding more gleeful than worried about the possibility. “With a rope made of bedsheets, you think?”

Jody caught Dean’s attention again, tugging at the hangings on the bed. “You’d hardly know they were created by an ancient eldritch being of pure grace, would you? Not half bad, that’s what I say.”

“No rope?” Dean heard Charlie say more loudly. Donna hushed her as she said indignantly, “What kind of escape doesn’t use ropes?”

“Oh, Charlie, use your noodle,” said Donna.

Dean felt himself flushing. Donna was trying to explain what had happened in the cell tower; she was worried he might consider it again, out of the high window from his bedroom. She was trying to take care of him, by warning Charlie to stop him. 

He looked into Jody’s eyes; she could see him listening, he knew, could see him figuring it out.

“She just likes taking care of people,” said Jody softly. “It’s a while since she’s had someone alive to do that for.”

Dean’s forehead creased. Who  _ were  _ these people - these ghosts, stuck in a castle, who apparently had it within them to care?

“I’ll be fine,” Dean said. Jody raised an eyebrow. It was maternal, in a dry kind of way. “I swear. I won’t - do that.”

He meant it. Jody had been right, before; there was no way Sam would know what Dean had done, and so Dean’s departure wouldn’t make a shred of difference to Sam’s determination to return to the castle. With regard to Sam, Dean was now powerless; the only way he stood a hope of helping his brother later, if Sam ever did manage to return, was by staying alive.

And so for now, he would live. It was as good a reason as any.

Jody seemed to see something sincere in his eyes, because she nodded sharply and called across the room.

“Come on, Lightstick,” she said. Donna’s head jerked around. “We’re all good here. Let’s go sort out the things that need sorting.”

“Oh, yeah!” Donna said, her face lighting up. “Lots to do with a live ‘un around, huh? Bath, you’ll need a bath. Hot towels. I’ll speak to - hey, Jody, do you think - OK, let’s go.” She was a bustle of half-sentences as she thought too quickly for her mouth to keep track. “Oh, has anyone seen my -”

“On my wardrobe,” Charlie interrupted, pointing to where Donna’s candelabra rested. Donna frowned, concentrated, and then successfully picked it up in pale hands.

“Huh,” Dean said. Donna dimpled.

“Yeah, we all used to be real good at the whole real-world interaction. Still got a few tricks up my sleeve.”

With equal focus, Jody picked up her clock, and the two of them made their way out of the room; at the door, Donna turned around.

“It’s gonna be OK, Dean,” she said. “You’re gonna be OK.”

Dean smiled for her benefit. She winked at him, and closed the door.

“She sure knows how to make people feel better, at least,” Charlie said. She rested one ghostly elbow on the wardrobe she’d woken up from, leaning casually. “So… you’re on an adventure then, huh?”

Dean frowned at Charlie, and raised a shoulder uncertainly.

“I don’t really do those,” he said, though the sentence seemed a lot less convincing now, after the woods and the wolves and the castle and the tower, than it had in a Wal-Mart parking lot. Charlie looked suitably unimpressed by his denial. She flitted over to his bed, and patted the duvet beside her.

“I only ask,” she said, as Dean obediently went to sit by her, “because I was looking at your clothes.”

“My - clothes?” Dean repeated. “They’re just - they’re just what I had on.”

“Exactly,” said Charlie, her eyes wide and tragic. “They’re not exactly adventurous, are they?”

“Adventurous…” Dean said, his voice low and mumbling. Charlie nodded.

“You know… people don’t often get the chance to do cool stuff like this. I really didn’t when I was alive, you know? I mean, there was cool stuff, yeah, but not on this  _ scale. _ ” She waved a hand to encompass the room, and with it the castle and the grounds and presumably the woods beyond. “I’m just saying, you should look the part. You’ve got the face for it.”

“Oh,” said Dean, slightly alarmed. “Uh - thanks.”

“So, how about you get those clothes off and we’ll see what I can do?”

Dean’s alarm ramped up several notches, very quickly.

“No,” he said.

Charlie frowned for a second, and then rolled her eyes comically.

“Oh, wait,” she said. “Yeah. Clarification. This isn’t a come-on. No ghostie-human times intended. For one thing, I completely swing the other way, if you catch my meaning. God, tell me you’re not gonna be one of those guys who’s even more freaked out by  _ that  _ than by the idea of me hitting on you.”

Dean shook his head.

“I’m not straight either,” he offered. Charlie beamed at him.

“You know,” she said, “we’re gonna look back and laugh at that time you thought a dead gay girl was hitting on you.”

Dean smiled - really smiled - and just like that, with the first display of emotion he’d allowed himself in a while, it all came flooding in. He was glad that he was already sitting down; he felt his legs tremble, and he pressed his hands up to his face quickly as though trying to catch the parts of himself that he could feel crumbling.

“Whoa, hey,” Charlie said. Dean felt a little waterfall of cold on his shoulder, and realised she was awkwardly patting it. “Easy there, my guy.”

“Sorry,” Dean said. “I just - it’s a lot, and -”

The full weight of everything that had happened started to hit him. Relief, that Sam was safe; terror, for himself; the first strains of anger, at being caught in this place. Trapped behind wolves and and walls.

He let out a little dry laugh; Charlie frowned.

“What was that for?” she said.

Dean shook his head.

“No, I just - I thought I was trapped before. In my small-town home. With everyone staring at me all the time because in the ninth grade I realised I was bisexual before I realised the world didn’t much like the sound of that, and I told people without thinking twice.”

Charlie was quiet.

“Sorry,” Dean said. “I just -”

“No, it’s OK,” she said. “I just don’t know what to say. I guess I know what it’s like to be trapped. I know… what it feels like for me, anyway.”

Dean frowned, and turned to look at her; she really did have a nice face, he thought, even though it was translucent and should have been scary. He spared a moment to wonder whether his capacity for fear had been broken.

“You’re trapped?” he said. “By - by that thing?”

Charlie’s face twisted.

“It’s complicated,” she said. “He’s not as bad as all that.”

“He?” Dean couldn’t keep the astonishment out of his voice. Charlie lifted a shoulder wryly.

“He likes that one best,” she said. “We used to call him ‘it’ but he wanted us to change. He asked specially.”

Dean quietly considered this new information. He wouldn’t have thought that the thing he’d met in the tower was capable of having a preference, somehow - it seemed too strange, too animalistic, too primally cruel.

“It - he - he controls everything here, does he?” Dean said. Charlie watched him for a moment before replying.

“That depends. He has the final say, I guess. He’s the big shot. He built this place.” She glanced around the room; Dean followed her eyes, taking in the golden beauty of it all over again.

“French?” he asked. Charlie made a face.

“I know. If I had phenomenal cosmic power, I’d have at least gone for something cool like remaking Wayne Manor, right?” She wiggled her eyebrows.

“Hold up. You like Batman?” Dean’s investment in their conversation ratcheted up a notch.

“Dude. There are people who  _ don’t  _ like Batman?”

“I’ve heard they exist, yeah.” Dean shook his head.

“Well, I don’t wanna know them. Batman’s awesome.”

“Right?”

“Right. I mean, like, sure, you’ve got your Superman, you’ve got your Aquaman, you’ve got all these godlike figures, but Batman…”

“He’s  _ real. _ ”

“He’s the realest,” Charlie nodded.

“He’s not above us. He’s  _ one  _ of us. And he has the courage to fight for us.”

“He’s the shadow among us. He’s…”

“The Dark Knight.” Dean’s grin was genuine, and Charlie’s smile in return seemed to be, too. “Hey, never would’ve guessed I’d find a comics nerd in here with me.”

“We’re all kinds of strange. Kevin can do backflips.”

“Kevin?”

“He’s -”

THUD. THUD. THUD.

The door shook on its hinges under the strength of three firm knocks. Dean leapt off the bed, his body switching back into panic mode as though it was a cue he'd been waiting for.

“It’s OK…” Charlie said. “You don’t have to be scared of him, he won’t -”

**I Know You Are In There.**

Dean backed up against the nearest bedpost, and wrapped his hands around it behind him for comfort and stability.

“Okay, that came off a bit -” Charlie began apologetically, but she was interrupted again.

**Open The Door.**

“Is it locked?” Dean said, and his heart sank when Charlie said,

“No.”

“Then why isn’t it coming in?”

Charlie’s ghostly face fell into an expression that Dean didn’t quite understand. She crossed her legs on the bed, her body making no imprint on the covers.

“He’s being polite,” she said.

**You Will Open This Door.**

“What do you want?” Dean called out, trying to sound braver than he felt. Charlie’s relaxed attitude was throwing him off, making him feel stupid for being scared - but he remembered the monstrosity of the thing in the tower, and he couldn’t help the sweat that broke out on his forehead.

**You Must Be Hungry. I Will Eat With You.**

“Said the spider to the fly?” Dean murmured to himself distractedly. Charlie, on the bed, huffed a little laugh. Dean’s head was starting to swim again.

**I Am Not An Arachnid. I Am An Angel.**

Dean blinked, and swallowed hard. First, the creature could hear him, even when he spoke softly. Second, the creature thought it was an angel? Dean had seen pictures of angels - there were even some on the ceiling above him, soft and pink and cherubic.

The beast outside was no angel.

“He really is,” Charlie said, as though able to read his thoughts. Perhaps Dean was narrating them with his expression; he closed his face down as much as he could.

“Fine,” he said, deciding to play along. He still spoke loudly, even though the beast could hear him when he whispered; it made him feel stronger. “Sure. You’re an angel. And you want… to have dinner?”

**You Will Join Me For Dinner.**

There seemed to be some light scuffling and muttering outside the door, and then the voice begrudgingly added,

**Please.**

Dean shook his head. This was stupid - Charlie, sitting on the bed like nothing was out of the ordinary, and the creature outside trying to, what? Play nice? And ghosts all through the house treating him like royalty with this room, and trying to take care of him - it was all stupid, it was all fake. He clenched his fists, feeling anger rising inside him.

“Dinner?” he said, and Charlie looked surprised, for the first time, at the harshness in his tone. “You want to eat me for dinner - sorry, eat dinner with me, is that the right way round? Is this the treatment all your prisoners get? Do you always make the cage look this shiny?”

There was a long, long pause. Charlie bit her lip.

**You Will Join Me For Dinner.**

“No,” Dean said.

**_You Will Join Me For Dinner._ **

“No,” Dean repeated, with even more certainty. This - this felt good. This felt right. He was still scared and he was still lost in a freakish supernatural world, but he was drawing the line. He was saying, Enough. “I’m not going to play nice with you, you ugly bastard. You got me stuck in here forever? You’re going to deal with the fact that you didn’t manage to hook yourself a good dining companion.”

**_You Will-_ **

“You know what?” Dean said furiously, “Just fuck off. Just fuck  _ off. _ ”

He remembered belatedly that the door wasn’t locked - and even if it were, who was he kidding? As though a few inches of gilded wood could stop a beast of that si ze, in a castle that - by all accounts - it seemed to have created itself. In the  _ French  _ style. Dean shuddered. He had no idea what kind of sick game the thing was playing, but he would be no part of it. 

The voice, when it came again, was icily cold.

**If You Do Not Eat With Me,** it said,  **You Do Not Eat At All.**

“Fine,” Dean said, his anger too strong to stop now. “Whatever.”

**You Will Starve.**

“I almost jumped off the tower earlier,” Dean said tautly. “What, you think you can wave death in my face and scare me into doing what you want? You got  _ nothing  _ on me, you stupid bastard.” 

**You...**

Dean half-smiled, half-grimaced. “You let my brother go, and that was the only hold you could’ve had on me. The only thing I cared about. I don’t give a  _ shit  _ any more. So starve me out. I’d rather die than play whatever game this is. I meant it - fuck  _ off. _ ”

There was a pause, and then -

**Your Foul Language Is Repulsive.**

And then, with a last petulant THUD on the door, the creature was gone. Dean didn’t hear it leave - its trademark silent movement was unchanged - but he sensed its proximity lessening, somehow, like a fading of static in the tips of his fingers.

“That went well,” Charlie said, in a bright but small sort of voice.

Dean glared at her - and then softened his look when she flinched and tried to cover it up.

“Sorry,” he said. “Are you…”

“I’m fine,” Charlie said. “Are you?”

“I’m okay.”

He resumed his place on the bed with her, his hands shaking.

“Shame about dinner,” Charlie said. Dean took a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

“Don’t you start,” he said.

“Could’ve got you dressed up for it,” she said, her sparkle of cheekiness returning.

“No. Not a  _ chance _ ,” Dean said, but mildly, playing along more than anything.

“I have so many options. We could’ve done a montage.”

Dean shook his head. He flopped backwards onto the bed, and stared up at the canopy above him. Tiny little flowers adorned the material - honeysuckle, it looked like, and jasmine. And peeking through, looking like interlopers, the odd red rose.

His body was reeling; his mind was on fire. Dean wished he could say that he couldn’t believe his own eyes, his own ears - wished that everything was happening to him through a haze of unreality - but it was all utterly and painfully real.

“I always thought people in stories felt stuff different,” Dean said aloud.

Charlie was lying down too; he hadn’t heard or felt her do so, but her voice came from beside him.

“Do you think you’re in a story?” she said.

“I mean, it’s more like a story than my day job, let’s put it that way.”

“Do you feel different, then?” Charlie asked.

Dean’s eyes were falling closed; sleep was coming for him, a balm for his shock.

“No,” he said thickly. “I’m still just me in here.”


	8. Chapter 8

When Dean woke up, he existed in a soft grey world for a few moments - a world where the events of the past day were the impossible fantasy, and the place he’d dreamed of - his own home, tending his plants - was real. He blinked once, twice, and saw hidden roses illuminated in lunar silver, and sighed. 

How strange, he thought, that the idea of just being at home - just existing in his own house, watering his herb garden and cooking dinner - felt unreachable and fantastical, and being inside a castle with ghosts and angels felt unavoidable. Dean’s stomach clenched with longing for familiarity.

“God, I hate this,” he said to the dark room around him.

It didn't reply. 

The place was quiet - but his stomach wasn’t. It growled angrily at him, and Dean pressed a fist against it to try to hush it.

“Charlie?” he tried. There was no response. Squinting through the gloom, he thought he could still make out her wardrobe; maybe she’d gone to sleep, too.

He sat up, stretching and groaning. At some point during his sleep, he’d crawled further up the bed so that his legs weren’t dangling off the side any more, but it hadn’t saved his neck from finding a new way to ache. He stood up.

Outside his grand window, there was only the night - and a full moon. Dean stared at it for a long, long moment, reminded of those eyes - blue and white and round as moons themselves. And that voice - it juddered Dean’s bones-

His stomach grumbled again. Dean cursed silently to himself. He’d anticipated being too angry and frightened to feel his hunger for far longer than this, but the sleep had settled him, and now he needed to eat. His clothes, he noticed now, felt clammy on his skin - but he didn’t want to take them off. They felt like armour, especially the leather jacket; not from the beast, not from the ghosts, but from the weirdness of it all - from the fact that in this place, he barely recognised himself. He wasn't keeping the angel out so much as keeping himself in.

“Charlie?” he tried, one more time. The wardrobe was still, with no blueish spirit tint to it in the gloom. Dean pressed his lips together, considering. “Charlie,” he said, “I'm going out. The door isn't saving me anyway, that's all in my head, and I'm starving.”

A brief flutter of memory; the beast at the door, coolly infuriated. 

_ You Will Starve. _

Dean pushed it away.

“I'm leaving now,” he said to the wardrobe. “If you're gonna forbid me to do it on Big Beastie’s orders, you'd better do it now…”

He pantomimed a couple of steps towards the door. The wardrobe remained staunchly in favour of silence.

Dean slumped his shoulders. 

“Fine,” he said. “Maybe I didn't even want you to stop me. Maybe I wanted to go out there where that thing is and try to scrounge some food somehow. Maybe that’s been my life dream all along. You didn't think of that, did you?”

The wardrobe was taciturn on this point, also.

Dean scowled at it.

“Fine,” he said again, but more quietly, and headed towards the door of the room - the unlocked, beautiful door.

The handle turned with a soft creak. Dean gripped it hard; he wished, more than anything, that this felt more like a movie - more like he was being taken along for a ride, rather than him having absolute control over what he did. More like he was worried for someone else on the screen, rather than feeling his own heart pounding and touching the handle’s cool metal with his own fingers and feeling the resistance of it as he turned it fully and pushed open the door…

Beyond, the corridor was empty. Dean peered out at it for several seconds, just to make sure.

“Hello?” he tried. No blue glowing lights in the shadows, this time, Dean thought; no brother calling his name. His second solo venture around the castle was a different beast to the first. 

He felt simultaneously more prepared, more conscious in his own head, and also more deeply shaken by far than he had before. The terror of it all had settled into his bones as he slept; he knew the feeling better now, and it didn't stop him being afraid.

He took a hesitant few steps. The carpet in the corridor outside was as rich and rough and unkempt as a wolf pelt.

Gathering momentum, at least, if not courage, Dean began a slow progress up the corridor and then down a few flights of cobwebby stairs. The castle was broadly as he remembered it: too big, too dark, cruel in stature and in bearing.

Suddenly, halfway down a larger set of stairs, Dean found himself looking out of a great window - far larger than the one in his room, the old-fashioned glass thicker at the bottom than the top. Pressing his hand to the cold smoothness of it, Dean stared.

Under the moonlight, he could pick out the shapes of hedges - ruffled, bestial things, that might once have been trimmed neatly but now were ragged twiggy hands scratching for each other in the dark, a ghostly frieze of battle. Through them wound a road - one that Dean could only pick out because the falling snowflakes hadn't completely buried the tyre-tracks that the Impala had left on the way in. They were almost gone, but not quite.

Looking at them - those indents in the snow, messy and human and jarring in a world of white - Dean felt a little clutch of panic. A need to run overtook him. Soon, the marks would be gone, and it would be as though he'd been here forever - maybe that was how the ghosts had all come to exist, they'd driven up to the castle one day and never driven away -

Dean’s hand was a fist on the window, and he was already half-imagining himself in the car, when he closed his eyes and checked the impulse.

“Don’t be stupid,” he muttered. That was important - not to be stupid. If he ran, the creature would catch him; Dean had seen the way it flew, the swiftness of its movements. He wouldn’t be able to outrun it - and while he thought it probably wouldn’t kill him, it might put him back in the cell tower. He almost certainly wouldn’t be allowed to live behind an unlocked door, that was for sure.

“Don’t be stupid,” he repeated, as though agreeing with himself, and turned away from the moonlit gardens.

After several long minutes of stumbling on cracked stone steps and blinking his way along grandly dilapidated corridors, Dean finally found himself at the head of some stairs that he recognised immediately: the same ones that he’d gone running up, when he’d first heard Sam’s voice calling. 

Dean shook his head. He couldn’t believe, standing here in the stillness, that it had been such a short time ago that he’d first come here. The rush of it, the discovery of Sam, freeing him, his own permanent incarceration... it had come at him like a flurry of snow. As though watching his former self pass, Dean let his gaze sweep up from the hall towards the staircase that led to the tower.

“Oh! You’re awake!” said a voice - a new voice, that made Dean’s head whip around. For a split second, he experienced a flash of hope that he’d find someone in front of him who was alive, and human - both, since the intersection seemed to be something of a rarity in the castle. A moment’s ruefulness came hard on the heels of hope when he turned round to see through the person speaking to him - another ghost.

A very short ghost, who eyed Dean with hesitation mixed with curiosity. He looked very young.

“Yeah… I am,” Dean said, not knowing what to say.

The ghost nodded; it seemed as though his conversational skills weren't much to speak of, either.

A suspicion took hold of Dean. “Can you do backflips?”

The ghost frowned.

“Yes,” he said. “But I’m mostly known for my intelligence and dry humour.”

Dean nodded as solemnly as he could.

“Well,” he said, “hi, Kevin - it’s Kevin, right? I’m Dean.”

Kevin seemed to enjoy the fact that his name was already known to Dean; he smiled, and his eyes lit up a little bit. Dean was surprised by how happy it made him, to have made Kevin smile.

_ Really clutching at straws, here,  _ Dean told his emotions.

“Come and meet my mom,” Kevin said. “She’s been dying to meet you properly ever since Donna turned up in the kitchen full of information about the actual living person in the East Wing.” He started to lead Dean onwards; it was only when they began to move and Dean saw Kevin holding his arms a little stiffly that he realised the ghost was holding onto something.

“Is that a cup?” he said. “Is it, like… your special thing?”

“My special thing?” Kevin said, sounding amused. Dean shrugged self-consciously, allowing himself to be led across the echo-chamber hallways and down a set of stairs.

“You know… Charlie has that wardrobe upstairs, and Jody had a clock, and -”

“Tethers,” Kevin interrupted. “Yeah. It’s a ghost thing. We pretty much haunt our objects, you know? And the further we go from them, the more effort it takes.”

“Huh,” Dean said. That explained why Donna and Jody had asked him to carry their clock and candelabra around. “So you guys just take your stuff with you?”

“Well… yeah and no,” Kevin said. “I got easy, just a little teacup.” Dean thought that Kevin was going to hold it up so that Dean could see it, but instead he seemed to pull it closer to his chest. “Donna and Jody, though, they have it harder. There’s some iron in their tethers, so they’re harder to move around. Charlie can’t move hers at all, it’s way too big and heavy for her.”

“Oh,” Dean said. “So, she can’t get downstairs?”

“She can,” Kevin said, as he pushed open a door and led Dean into yet another gloomy, gaping dark mouth of a room - this one with a long, heavy-looking table at the centre of it. There were only two chairs, one at the head and one at the foot. “It’s just -”

“I look a bit more like this,” said Charlie’s voice, and Dean suppressed a start as she appeared beside him; when he looked at her, he noticed that she appeared a lot less substantial, here, than she had upstairs - and in her hair, just trickling down one side, was something that looked dark and liquid.

“Oops,” Charlie said, swinging her hair forward. “Is my beauty spot showing again?”

The ghostly stain of blood was swiftly covered. She offered a bright smile in the face of Dean’s expression; he could only imagine how horrified he looked.

“I’m a ghost,” she said. “What did you expect?”

Dean opened his mouth - but he was swiftly interrupted, and he was glad of being spared the need to respond. 

Emerging from the floor itself was another ghost, a tiny woman with short dark hair.

“Mom,” Kevin said, “this is -”

“Dean!” said the ghost, rising gracefully and completely out of the floor and floating closer. “A real boy, after all these years.” She put her hands on her hips; Dean allowed himself to be inspected in silence. There was something about her - some kind of look in her eye - that didn’t look as though it would brook trouble. “You can call me Mrs Tran. I’m Kevin’s mom, and I run the lower house around here.”

“You do?” Dean refrained from commenting on the state of the dusty, spider-ridden castle, or even casting a pointed glance around the magnificently dingy dining room in which they were standing.

“Absolutely,” Mrs Tran said crisply. “What brings you out of your room?” She eyed him frankly. Dean opened his mouth to answer her, and then second-guessed himself, and scuffed a foot on the floor.

“Uh - well, listen, I know I’m not supposed to, uh… the big, the big guy got kind of mad at me, earlier, you know? But I’m…”

Dean’s stomach chose this moment to announce the problem for him.

Mrs Tran’s face lit up, and for a second she was the spitting image of her son - they smiled in the same way, Dean thought. 

“You’re hungry?” she said. Dean nodded, in a good attempt at contrition.

“These live ‘uns,” Charlie said, rolling her eyes. “With their appetites and their five-a-days.”

“That’s enough from you,” Mrs Tran said tartly. “No shaming a living person with a desire to eat, not in this castle. Go and find Donna and Jody, Charlie. And Kevin, set out six places at the table. We’re going to make a feast out of it.” She looked at Dean and offered him a smile, with just a touch of asperity. “I used to be a chef, you know. Michelin starred.”

Dean made a suitably impressed face.

“D’you do burgers?” he said, his stomach growling even louder than before. 

Mrs Tran shook her head.

“Do I do burgers,” she said, and turned away, and began to sink back into the floor.

It turned out, Mrs Tran  _ did  _ do burgers. Big, juicy burgers, with onions and bacon and cheese dripping out the bun. Dean didn’t eat alone; the ghosts gathered at one end of the dining table, and Kevin drew up more chairs from the shadows, and Donna lit a fire in the grate - and they were a party, somehow, the six of them. Dean found himself laughing - actually laughing, as Charlie told the story of her tattoo, and Donna giggled her way through a bad joke, and Jody offered wry comments and met Kevin’s eyes over the table to share expressions of exaggerated irony.

In front of each of the ghosts was a plate of food.

“I couldn’t help making six,” Mrs Tran said, when Dean was licking his fingers and eyeing Charlie’s uneaten burger. “Go ahead, she won’t touch it.”

“You don’t eat?” Dean said, pulling the plate greedily towards him. Sitting by the side of this one was a little pot full of greyish goo.

“I do sometimes,” Charlie said. “Sort of, anyway. Just to remember. It doesn’t do much for me. Try that grey stuff, it’s delicious.”

Dean obligingly poured grey goop out over the top of his second burger, sandwiched it back together, and took a huge bite.

“So… you can taste food?” he managed to say around the food. “Mmmm - mm - mhmmm, oh - oh yeah.” The grey stuff really was good.

“Good God,” Jody said.

“Manners,” said Mrs Tran, and Dean chewed, swallowed, and managed to look a little ashamed of himself before repeating the question.

“A bit?” Charlie offered. “Sometimes. When I’m near my tether.”

“Nah,” Kevin said.

“It’s ‘no’, Kevin,” came the maternal reproof.

“He’s right, though,” Donna said. “I can’t taste anything. Might as well be poking holes in a sieve these days.”

“Can you  _ feel  _ the food, at least?” Dean asked. Donna lifted a shoulder.

“Sorta. It’s like…” She seemed to drift off a little as she sought an accurate analogy. Dean kept eating; Jody watched Donna with a mixture of fondness and exasperation in her eyes.

“We’ve got all night, don’t you worry,” she said.

“It’s always time management with you, isn’t it, Tick Tock?” Donna riposted.

“The clock life is getting to her,” Kevin said, mock-sadly. Jody made a little indignant noise.

“Next thing, every time she tuts with disapproval, it’ll be on the second, every second,” Charlie threw in, and Jody didn’t even have time to disagree before the whole group of ghosts was doing a surprisingly good impression of her rueful little tutting noise, and then dissolving into laughter. Even Dean joined in; he hadn’t known Jody long, but she took jokes at her expense like a pro, rolling her eyes with a little amused smile at the corner of her mouth.

“Shhh, shh,” Donna finally said, waving her hands. “I was  _ trying  _ to describe what it’s like to eat food as a ghost to our new friend Dean, here. If I could have some silence for contemplation, please?”

The group was dutifully attentive as she squinted into the air.

“It’s like…” she said. “It’s like…”

“It's like trying to sleep with someone you're not attracted to,” interrupted Charlie, to immediate shouts of disapproval.

“My son is underage, Charlie Bradbury, you keep it clean -”

“It’s not even like that!”

“It is!” Charlie insisted. “Like, they’re right there, and you're there too, but you don't need what they've got and you don't feel anything - you know?”

Dean watched them continue to argue with a little unconscious smile on his face. Charlie’s laugh was like sunshine in this dark room, and Kevin was bright-eyed and a little excitable, and even Jody’s grumpiness seemed entirely necessary - a deep bass note in the music of this strange little family. Mrs Tran, the stern drum keeping time, pushed a third plate towards Dean.

“It’s not all-singing, all-dancing,” she said over the sounds of loud discussion, “but it’s good, isn’t it?”

Dean, with his mouth full of the last of the second burger, could only nod his head in the most vehement way that he could. The food was good; more than that, sitting here in the firelight with these people - bright, complicated people who loved each other - it was helping him. Dean felt like he was being put back together in a place he wouldn’t have been able to reach, alone. 

And he felt  _ full.  _ He wished he had room for more.

Charlie sat back in her seat, tilting it onto two legs.

“You got any more ghostie questions, Dean?” she said, his name sounding familiar and safe in her mouth, now.

Dean gulped his mouthful and considered. He had a lot of questions - he wanted to ask how they’d all come to be here, he wanted to ask why they didn’t leave; he wanted to know if they were trapped here forever, and if when he died, he’d become one of them-

All of his questions would have punctured this strange and eerie and lovely night, snatched from the jaws of a nightmare. Dean couldn’t face it. He only lifted a shoulder and said,

“Why’re you all being so… nice to me?”

Donna made a noise of confusion.

“What were we supposed to do, let you starve up there forever?” she said. Dean raised his eyebrows.

“Well, the - the, uh -”

“Castiel,” said everyone at the table, as one - and then looked around at each other, amused by their synchronicity.

“Castiel?” said Dean, looking round at them all, feeling the glow of the fire on his face.

“That’s his name. The angel,” Kevin explained. “The one you met.”

“Castiel,” said Dean, to himself. The name felt powerful; Dean glanced over his shoulder, as though expecting the beast to appear at the sound of its name. “Well - yeah, I was banned from eating, right? And my brother got a life sentence for stealing an apple, so I guess food is kind of a big deal around here? So… why are you just giving it to me?”

Jody shook her head.

“It’s not like that,” she said. “He’s not - it wasn’t because it was food. It wasn’t about the apple.”

“No?”

Jody shook her head, looking tight-lipped.

“Then why am I a prisoner here? What does it want with me?” Dean couldn’t help letting the questions slip out, and sure enough the mood darkened.

Donna and Jody shared worried looks.

“It’s complicated,” Jody said. “He doesn’t…”

There was an awkward pause.

“The important thing,” said Donna firmly, “is that as far as we’re concerned, you’re not a prisoner, Dean. You’re our guest.”

She smiled one of her million-dollar Donna smiles, and Dean couldn’t help humouring her and grinning back at her - and just like that, the mood was restored.

They talked on and on, of this and that - back to trivial things.

Dean ate another burger. He didn’t know when the angel was going to come back, he reasoned - this might be his last meal for a while. Also, the cooking was  _ incredible.  _ Whatever Mrs Tran had been paid at her Michelin-starred restaurant, it hadn’t been enough.

Dean still felt trapped, it was true - whenever he thought of the fell beast lurking in the castle with him, a shudder went through him. But with good food on the table and people who were starting to feel like friends surrounding him, he let himself relax. For a couple of hours, with these people, he could stop being a prisoner; he could be a guest.


	9. Chapter 9

Stepping out of the dining room and back into the darker gloom of the main castle felt like getting out of a hot bath and stepping into snow. Dean cast a glance at his surroundings, more with dislike than fear, now. The evening's talking and food had bolstered his nerves; he felt more himself, more in control.

“So, what am I supposed to do here?” Dean said. Donna and Jody, who were leading him back to his bedroom, shared a look.

“Do?” said Jody, though Dean had the feeling she'd understood him completely, and was only stalling. He pressed on all the same.

“You know, like… I had a job out there. I can't just sit around all day being a prisoner and sleeping and eating. I'll go crazy.”

Donna was nodding along with him.

“Oh, yeah,” she said. “No, I get it. I mean, part of it is Castiel’s decision, since he's the one who -”

“Imprisoned me against my will?”

“Owns the castle,” Donna finished uncomfortably. “Dean, I'm sure no one wants you to be unhappy here. This is just a new situation for all of us, and it might take a while to figure it out.”

“Right,” Dean said, and his tone made it clear that this was not really all that right. “OK. So, I'll just sit tight and be a good boy until the monster decides it's time to play, shall I?”

Jody made a face at Donna that seemed to say, _I told you so._

 _“_ You could always explore the castle,” Donna offered consolingly. “Even I don't know half the corners of this place. Maybe there's a whole other family of ghosts lurking in a wardrobe somewhere!” She hitched on a smile.

“Explore the castle?” Dean said. He considered it. On the one hand, it was something to do; on the other hand, his present courage was sure to dissipate when the effects of company and burgers wore off. He wasn't sure how ready he was to meet Castiel again, even now.

“Yeah!” Donna tried to sound enthused as she led him up another staircase. She was becoming less substantial, Dean noticed, the longer they walked; Jody, too. They had to have left their tethers downstairs. “There's the towers, the kitchens, the East Wing, the West Wing -”

“Not the West Wing,” Jody cut in. She looked suddenly angry.

“Why not the West Wing?” Dean asked. “Where's that?”

Donna cast a guilty glance over Dean's shoulder, up a grand staircase to his left, before carefully leading him past it.

“It's nothing!” she said, bright and evasive. “No, no, it's just that the West Wing has some… some old junk in it. Looks like my old friend Rick’s backyard up there. And let me tell ya, Rick was a _slob._ ”

Dean looked over at Jody, who still wore an expression of annoyance on her face.

“Lighten up, Tick Tock,” he said. Jody’s insubstantial features lightened a little.

“Only she gets to call me that,” she replied more warmly, pointing at Donna.

“Aw, Jodes. I didn't know it was our special thing,” Donna said. “Like when my cousin used to call my uncle ‘Craphead’.”

Jody seemed to consider this.

“No,” she replied eventually. “Not a lot like that.”

“It was done with affection!” Donna protested.

“Well, _exactly._ That's why these situations aren't alike.”

Donna let out a little huff of annoyance.

“One day, Jody, you're going to realise how much I mean to you, and you'll come running with apologies for all the times you've acted like your second hand got stuck up your -”

“Lightstick, you finish that sentence, you _know_ where that second hand is going next.”

Dean listened to them argue their way down the corridor, up a flight of stairs…

And out of earshot.

He, himself, remained still. After a few moments, he walked back to the staircase that Donna had said - with her eyes, it was true, not her words - led to the West Wing.

It would be stupid to go up there, Dean knew, and he had made himself some promises regarding stupid - that is, deciding to not be it for as long as he was here. But the staircase was quietly inviting, and he felt a little brave, bordering on reckless. And _angry -_ most of all he felt angry.

So, he was going to be stuck in here like a rabbit in a trap, waiting for the wolf to come and snap his neck, was he? Sitting up in his room hoping that today wouldn't be the day the beast got tired of his presence in the castle and decided to resort to other means of entertainment - torture, maybe, and then death?

Dean shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Not happening.”

If he started off by accepting it, he'd never work up the courage to break the habit of obedience. He'd be a puppet in this place forever.

Dean - his breath coming fast - took his first step up the stairway. Then another, and another. His heart was hammering. He wondered how long he had before Donna and Jody came looking for him, and how fast they could really move, as ghosts; he picked up the pace a little. He had the very unfamiliar but not entirely unpleasant feeling of having gone rogue, of having defied expectations.

The staircase up to the West Wing, and the corridor beyond, was much like all the others - dark to the point of near-blindness, dry and dusty and likely full of spiders. Dean hurried onwards, towards the outline of a door that he could make out in the murky light.

“Shhh,” he murmured to himself, as he pushed at it; it turned out to be far taller than he'd expected, at least ten feet high. It opened with no noise. Dean walked through it, and was spilled out into a room that was wide and long, dimly lit with a low, blueish radiance. Dean sensed the touch of Castiel everywhere he looked - in the slashes on the walls, the burn-marks on the lacquered wooden floor, the shards of glass from a broken vase in one corner.

And yet amid the destruction, Dean saw things he would not have anticipated; books, for one thing. Many of them, stacked up in swaying piles. And on a nearby table was a plant - several plants, actually, that Dean recognised as honeysuckle seedlings in one big pot. They looked well-watered.

The idea of Castiel - of the beast - carefully watering honeysuckle sprouts was one that Dean found difficult to reconcile with the miasma of terror he'd encountered in the tower and outside his room.

“Keep going,” he said to the seedlings, gently lifting one leaf to check its underside. Green and healthy, he found. “You brighten this place up.”

The little plants didn't wave their fronds back at him, like his own herb garden would at home - but Dean felt better for seeing them there.

He moved further into the room, taking in the quietness of it - the beauty of the decorations. The ones that hadn't been destroyed, that was, Dean thought; his foot crunched on something ceramic, and he looked down to see a broken flowerpot on the floor.

Part of the room seemed to have been sectioned off by a huge, dark curtain. Dean was half-tempted to ignore it, and go back to his room - he'd pushed his luck pretty far, and maybe it was time to call it quits. He wasn’t tired - and the idea of settling down to sleep again in his still-damp clothes and leather jacket wasn’t entirely appealing - but at least he’d be back to doing what he was supposed to be doing. Familiar territory.

Then a sigh of wind fluttered aside the curtain, and Dean caught a glimpse of something - something bright and sparkling. His feet were carrying him forward before he’d made the decision to move. Curiosity propelled him, and he reached for the curtain and drew back its velvet shielding completely to reveal it: it stood on a table, in the very centre of a wide space that was enclosed by a metal framework without glass - open to the elements.

A single, beautiful rose.

Dean couldn’t help getting closer; he’d never seen a plant like this before. It wasn’t planted in anything, but rather floated a few inches above the table. Drawing closer, Dean realised that there was a glass covering over the top of it, like an upside-down jar; behind it, the rose shimmered and glittered. Its leaves and bloom looked soft; Dean would have said that it couldn’t be real, but for the fact that on the table itself there rested several curled petals.

 

 

Placing his hand on the glass, Dean peered inside, looking for some kind of string or thread that held the rose aloft; he could see none. He frowned, and gripped the glass more tightly, and lifted it away - leaving the rose still hanging, still and shining.

“What are you?” Dean murmured. He placed the glass cover on the floor, and reached out. The flower looked too precious for his big mechanic’s hands to be touching, but he couldn’t help himself; he wanted to know what it felt like, if it was real-

**_WHAT ARE YOU DOING?_ **

Dean leapt back as though burned, though he hadn’t so much as grazed the rose with a fingertip. He stumbled backwards and fell as, above him, the shadow of the night came to life and leapt towards him; with a yell of fear, he tried to crawl backwards, but the beast was focused only on the rose. It seized for the glass cover and replaced it, peering through the glass with its fierce lunar eyes for a long moment, ensuring that nothing was amiss.

Only then did it turn to Dean.

“I didn’t -” Dean said, scrambling to his feet. “I was just -”

**WHAT ARE YOU DOING IN HERE?**

“I just - I was looking, and -”

The beast roared; in its haze of a face, Dean saw an open mouth, and teeth. He felt himself whiten, felt the panic clutch back over his heart; in a moment, he went from defensive to petrified. The roar touched a nerve in his brain that threw conscious thought and rationality to the wind.

“Please!” he heard himself say. The creature raised a curl of shadow in the shape of a clawed fist, and raked it down the wall, leaving great gashes in its wake. It was so close, so huge, so utterly animalistic and unknowable that Dean felt beyond small, beyond weak - he was powerless.

 **GET OUT.** **_GET OUT._ **

Dean didn’t need telling twice. He ran.

Back into the room with the seedlings, through the door, out into the corridor, down the stairs; in a split second of indecision between turning to go to his bedroom and turning towards the front door, Dean found himself heading for outside.

 _'Don’t be stupid'?_ his mind laughed to itself manically as he ran for the exit. _Well, that’s out the window. Might as well try to escape, now-_

“Oh, Dean - you’re still awa-” Dean heard Kevin say, and then Charlie was by his side, flitting to keep pace with him.

“Where are you running to?” she said, disappearing and reappearing at his elbow too quickly for him to see her properly.

“Out!” he said, thundering down the last set of stairs, the grand ones up from the hallway. “I can’t stay in this place with that _thing_ in here. I’m done, I’m leaving!”

“No, Dean - wait!”

Dean didn't listen. He reached the door, and was about to throw himself against it when he remembered it opened inward. He grabbed for the handle in the dark; somewhere in the castle, the beast roared again. It shook the foundations, shook Dean's bones.

“Dean - please -” Charlie said desperately. “You can't, it's dangerous out there!”

Dean managed to swing the door open with a groan that sounded angry. A sudden flurry of snow from outside whirled in, and flakes flew through Charlie's ghostly body. Her eyes were shining when Dean met them.

“It's more dangerous in here,” he said wildly. “With that thing!”

And he hurled himself out the doorway and into the snow. The weather was a vicious attack of ice in the dark; he stumbled down to where he'd parked the Impala, his heart twisting when he saw her. She’d been protected from the worst of the blizzard by the way he'd parked her, in the shelter of the sweep of the steps. Even still, he had to brush a coat of snow off her sleek body before he could find the door handle.

She opened up to him like a portal to a safer world. Dean threw himself inside and slammed the door. His hand was already searching for the keys - they were on the seat next to him. He had to have left them there in his rush to get inside the castle.

When the Impala coughed and choked the first time Dean tried starting her, he closed his eyes.

“Come on, Baby,” he muttered. “Come on -”

She spluttered, growled, and then roared into life. Dean felt his relief almost melt him through, but then stiffened his back.

“Let’s go, let's go,” he said, punching the accelerator - remembering too late that it was no way to start on snow, but the Impala was forgiving. After a second of wheelspin, she found her traction and swung forwards. Dean gripped the wheel, searching in the dark for the tracks that he'd left coming in - he couldn't see them-

 _There._ He caught a glimpse and followed it, and he was on the road. He was going to drive out, out through the woods and past the wolves and back to his life, his job, his brother. Back home. He was going to go home.

The tousled, unkempt branches of the snowy garden reached for him, but the Impala brushed them off. Dean glanced in his rearview mirror, and saw no moons, no sign of the shadows giving chase. No angel. He let out a breath.

He surprised himself by how together he felt, how sharp. Perhaps, he thought, he was learning how to deal with the intensity of panic; perhaps, if he'd stayed, he would have one day been able to face the angel’s wrath without a tremor.

But that didn't matter now. He was leaving.

He passed the two columns of stone that had guided him in, not so long ago. Dean checked his watch, and then glanced up at the sky: three in the morning, and the sky was all coal and shadow. He gritted his teeth. So long as he didn't run into any wolves, he should be home before dawn.

He could cook Sam breakfast. They'd eat it together and then sip coffee and Sam would talk about his latest case, and-

And there, of course - there, in the dark, was a wolf.

Dean, already driving too fast in the snow, wrenched the wheel sideways at the sight of the black silhouette ahead on the road. The Impala did everything she could for him; she swerved, her wheels struggling for a grip - but she could not stem the flow of her passage off the road, and she was powerless to halt as a great tree rose up ahead of her and her hood bent around its thick, unshaken, rooted steadiness.

Dean, sitting up into silence a few seconds later, realised that he must have blacked out; along his hairline, there was a wetness that felt too warm to be snow or sweat. He wiped at it, and winced; his hand came away red.

The howl went up, outside. Its straining eeriness closed Dean’s hopeless eyes for a long, long moment.

He had already seen that glass presented no kind of safety; he might as well try to run as stay here. He could see from the steam issuing from under the hood that the Impala would be able to help him no further. He gripped her steering wheel tightly for a second, squeezing - his index finger on his right hand slipped in the blood from where he’d cracked his head against it - and thanked her in his mind.

Out loud, he said, “Sorry, Baby. You did great.”

She hissed steam.

Dean opened the car door with shaking hands. There was a slowness, an acknowledgement of inevitability, in his movements. He knew that it was hopeless. The wolves had him now.

He wished he had something - anything - to fight them off with; he wished he were the kind of guy who drove around with a trunk full of ammunition. Maybe in his next life, he would be that guy - maybe he’d learn. It wasn’t that he expected to be able to battle them back; it was only that he didn’t want to die feeling helpless.

The snow crunched beneath his boots. Dean blinked around him; out of the woods were emerging one - two - three wolves. Were they the same three as before? Dean thought he recognised the look and the grin of the one on his far left. Watching it emerge out of the dark, its hackles raised and bloody, its every footfall like a blow to the ground, Dean almost dropped to his knees.

Instead, he cast a look to the ground. Rocks - there were rocks, but they wouldn’t be much use. He began to search more desperately; the wolves were still several feet away, padding slowly, knowing that he presented no threat.

He noticed a long branch from one of the trees lying on the ground. He picked it up, the fallen thing becoming his only protection, and hefted it in his grip. He met the eye of the wolf on the left.

“Come on, then,” he said, and his voice came out small. Angry, he made his tone louder. “Come on, then, you bastard! Come and get it!”

The wolf bared its teeth. Before it could leap, its brother in the centre loped suddenly forward, on the attack. Dean raised the branch, his arm muscles immediately protesting, and swung it heavily at the wolf as it approached. It snarled viciously and momentarily backed off, a single line of saliva dripping from its open jaws. It stood taller than Dean’s waist, and he could see the bulging muscles in his haunches; the reality of the situation hit him hard.

_I’m going to die here._

He swung the branch again, angrily.

“You stupid bastard wolves! You fuckers! I don’t - I don’t want to die! I don’t - want - to - die!” He whipped the branch with every word, and devolved into formless yells. The wolves began to circle, growling and snarling - they were playing with him, Dean thought, but that didn’t matter. He bared his own teeth back at them. His heart was thumping so hard, his breath coming fast; he tried to pay attention to it, pay attention to being alive -

The wolf on the right leapt in, and managed to seize the end of his branch. Dean shouted and pulled back, but it was no good; its jaws were a steel vice, and his weapon was torn from his grip, shredding his palms as it went. He cried out - and then the left-most wolf was in front of him, eyes yellow and triumphant. It was preparing to spring. It opened its jaws, tongue lolling; its muscles bunched.

When it leapt, Dean turned his back. Its claws raked down his spine, shredding his leather jacket and grazing his skin - but not cleaving it. When the wolf’s two great paws thudded back into the snow, faster than he knew he could move, Dean was running.

And then, behind Dean - coming from the Impala, audible through the open door - there was a sudden fuzz of static, and a song started to play on the radio.

For a second, Dean and the wolves stood frozen, like a tableau; the sound was unexpected enough to halt the wolves, and meanwhile Dean was hearing it with a little kick of extra fear.

 _See them standing in the foothills,_ _  
_ _Waiting for the kill…_

Blue Öyster Cult sounded soft and eerie in the wood.

Dean clenched his fist, and as though the slight movement had woken them up, the wolves growled once more. There was no point in running; there was nothing more to be done but brace for impact. Dean looked into its eyes-

And then, like a dark whirlwind, the angel came from the east.

 _On wings of fear the terror sweeps…_ sang the Cult, as the beast dived in front of Dean and barrelled into the wolf as it sprang. Dean cried out and fell back as the pair of them locked into immediate and brutal combat. The wolf’s claws were cruel, and they seemed to be doing damage - out here, beyond the sanctuary of its castle, the angel looked less shadowy, less untouchable.

The other two wolves’ slavering jaws were wide open. As Dean watched, they leapt onto the angel’s back and latched onto its neck, tearing at it; the angel’s blue-moon eyes narrowed in pain, and it roared. Swiping out with those hands, long-fingered and strong, it managed to shake them off. The wolves were indomitable; they got up, and leapt back into the fray. Dean picked up his branch, uselessly - the movement only drew the attention of the wolf nearest him, and its eyes grew hungry once more. The angel screamed in rage, picked it up bodily, and threw it against a tree.

_To defend - this is the pact-_

Dean wanted to close his eyes and just listen to the familiar music, and pretend that no one was there but him and Blue Öyster Cult - but on the ground were streaks of red wolf’s pain and something else, something silver-blue and light that had to be angel’s blood. The wolf that had been thrown was limping, but still fighting; the other two were snapping at the angel’s arms, its shoulders, as it faced them on its haunches.

Their teeth were too sharp, their determination and hunger too strong. Dean stood behind the angel, waiting for it to give up, to go home - but it did not. It was immovable. As it suffered yet another bite, it cried out and threw its arm out, hard.

This time, the wolf didn’t just get thrown into a tree - it hit a broken-off branch halfway down the trunk, and there was the sickening sound of its skin being pierced. It fell to the ground and did not get up for several seconds; when it did, it was gingerly, staggeringly.

Growls turned to yips and whimpers. The angel raised itself to its full height, shadows curling, and roared at the top of its lungs.

As one, the wolves fled.

The angel turned around to face Dean, its eyes strange and seeming to lack focus. Its shadowy body was covered with streaks of silvery blood.

 **Safe?** it said.

Dean could barely muster a half-nod.

“S-safe,” he managed.

The angel nodded, and fell forwards into the snow.

Abruptly, the music coming from the car cut out.

For a long few moments, Dean only breathed.

Snow fell.

He turned towards the Impala. She had stopped steaming; Dean busied his shock-numb mind by raising the hood, and peering inside. It was only her cooling system that had ruptured in the crash; everything else looked intact. It was better than he could have hoped for. With any luck, she’d even start.

Sure enough, when Dean leaned in and turned the ignition, she gave a sad little grumble but managed to splutter into life. Dean patted her roof, standing up straight once more.

“Atta girl,” he said softly.

He needed to move. The wolves were gone for now, but there was no telling whether the two less-injured ones would decide to return. He should just get in his car, and drive away.

And yet…

Dean paused, facing away from the angel where it lay in the snow. He stared over the roof of the Impala into the woods, not seeing the trees, lost in thought. He should just drive home. He should _go._ This creature had got exactly what it deserved.

When he turned around to look at it, it was utterly still.

 _Safe?_ it had asked him. _Safe?_

As though it mattered. As though it would have gone on fighting, if Dean had said no.

Dean didn’t know anything at all about the physiology of angels, but he knew that any creature who had lost as much blood as was strewn on the ground was not well-placed to live long. Particularly not in the snow, quietly freezing.

There was a selfish voice inside him that told him, _It was willing to imprison you…_

“But not to let me die,” Dean said out loud. “It wouldn’t let me die.”

He spat on the ground, angry. And then he walked over to the angel, his boots coating themselves in red and silver.

“Don’t make me regret this,” he said, and he bent down to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the MAGNIFICENT ART in this chapter was done by the extremely talented [delicirony](http://www.delicirony.tumblr.com) on tumblr :o :o <3
> 
> The AO3 post with her art can be found [here!!!!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11057850)  
> The tumblr post with her art can be found [here!!!!](https://delicious-irony.tumblr.com/post/161293574573/tale-as-old-as-time)


	10. Chapter 10

Far away - not far in miles, but in minds - Sam Winchester swerved roughly into the garage where his brother worked.

He slammed the door of his company car, and strode over to the garage door. His hair was a mess; his eyes looked swollen, as though he’d been punched. His clothes, an old band t-shirt and jeans, seemed to hang off him. He looked simultaneously desperate and dangerous.

It was only at the door of the garage that he paused for the first time, the inevitable flow of his purpose halted. The reason for his hesitation lay within the garage itself: a light on, and voices.

Sam narrowed his eyes, squeaked the door open ever so slightly, and listened.

“-it’s just some stupid country bumpkin detective, having a bit of a dig,” said a voice, English-accented. Sam’s expression darkened.

“First it’s two-bit detectives,” said another voice - one that was altogether smoother and more pleasant. “Next, it’s the newspapers. Detective Victor Henrikson of Hell-Knows-Where, Kansas, takes down Multi-Million Corporation Gas Ton. You know the people love an underdog.”

“I just don’t think it was worth you coming all this way to shut him down…”

“It’s worth it if my company doesn’t get dragged into a lawsuit over Angel’s Hollow, and I lose the chance to ever get my hands on the place.”

“But -”

The two speakers stopped abruptly. Sam, his deft hands betrayed by tiredness, had accidentally knocked against the door. 

“Come in?” said the second speaker - the smoother, more authoritative one.

Sam cleared his throat, and made an obvious effort to smooth out his face before he entered. When he did so, he saw a short, balding man looking at him in slight consternation - and standing nearer, there was another man. He wasn’t especially tall; his hair was an unremarkable light shade; he was not especially handsome. And yet, somehow, Sam seemed to find himself staring.

“Mr Winchester, the younger,” said the shorter man. Sam blinked, and tried to focus.

“Crowley,” he said.

“Long time, no see.” Crowley offered him a little raised eyebrow of questionable friendliness. Sam did not return it.

“And this is…?” Sam said, looking to the third figure in the room. There was something about the way he stood that seemed to lessen Sam’s posture, make him shrink in a little.

“Introductions, yes,” Crowley said, rubbing his hands together. “Sam, this is the CEO of Gas Ton. Mr Bringer.”

“Call me Light,” the man said, reaching out a hand.

Sam took it, and for a moment, the single bulb overhead in the room seemed to shudder.

“The CEO? Here?” he said. The bleariness in his voice might only have been evident to his brother; outwardly, he looked sharp. “At… four in the morning?”

“I flew in specially,” Light said, his hand still clasping Sam’s. “Something came up. What about you - regular night-time tour of the place?”

“Uh - well -” Sam bit his lip. On his face was written a dilemma; the need to confide versus the need to hide.

“You look troubled,” said Light, pushing ever so gently.

“It’s my brother,” Sam said, allowing the words to spill. “I know this is going to sound like I’m cra zy, but he’s in trouble. And it’s all my fault… I went to Angel’s Hollow, and -”

The look in Light’s eyes, which had seemed politely caring, sharpened to a razor point.

“Angel’s Hollow?” he said, guiding Sam to sit on a rickety wooden stool by Dean’s desk. “You went there? You could get in?”

“There were wolves… but I was driving and the road just seemed to change, and then I was already in the wood,” Sam said, the story coming out garbled. “I drove into a hedge in the middle of the gardens, I was out of control. I was going inside, I was going to ask for help -” He gulped. “And then I saw the tree.”

The room went very still.

“The tree,” Light repeated. “What was it like?”

“It was right in the middle of the gardens. All shadowy. Like it didn’t want to be seen, but it couldn’t help it,” Sam said. “I was so hungry, I… just looking at it made me so hungry. I went over to it and I reached up and I had my hand on one of the apples, and then -”

Light’s eyes were fixed on Sam’s.

“And then?” he pressed, some of his smoothness slipping.

“And then - this is going to sound crazy - but there was this - this  _ beast.  _ Like, fifteen feet tall, and made of shadows -”

Light shook his head.

“Yes,” he said, “yes, but what about the apple? Did you pick it? Do you have it?”

Sam stared.

“Of course,” said Crowley, speaking up for the first time in a while, “this news of a beast is very disturbing. We’re all shocked, focusing on the wrong things for comfort…”

Light seemed to regather himself. He blinked, and it occurred to Sam that it was the first time he’d seen that happen. Light’s gaze was as constant and true as a snake’s.

“The beast,” Light said. “Yes. That  _ is  _ disturbing.”

“It has my brother,” Sam said, strained. “I need to get back in. I was going to see if Dean had any cars here - anything big, so that the wolves might not be able to -”

“Oh, Sam, no,” Light said, putting his arm around Sam’s shoulders and raising him back to his feet. “That’s not safe at all, no. Listen, I’m a powerful man, Sam. Gas Ton is a big company and I have a lot of funds behind me. If you tell me your brother is in there and needs help, then I’m not going to allow anyone to languish at the hands of a beast.”

“So - you’ll help?” Sam said, seeming to hardly believe his ears. “You believe me?”

“Of course,” Light said, squeezing him and walking him over to the door. “It’ll take me a while to gather what we need, but I’m thinking firepower. I’m thinking big machinery, here. And of course, the key ingredient is you.”

“Me?”

“We’ll need you to get in,” Light said, smiling brilliantly. “To lead the way.”

“Right,” Sam said. “Right. Of course.”

When he was outside - a promise from Light, to call him first thing in the morning, ringing in his ears - Sam looked troubled. He walked back over to his car, chewing on his lip.

“It’ll be alright,” said a voice in the darkness. 

Sam nearly leapt a mile out of his own skin; too startled even to cry out, he whipped around. Standing behind him, clutching a ragged old rucksack in one hand and a notebook and pen in the other, was Chuck. “Or… it won’t.”

Sam frowned.

“Thanks, Chuck,” he said. “Reassuring.”

Chuck lifted a shoulder.

“I like the t-shirt,” he said. Sam looked down at it, the first thing he’d found in the laundry pile.

“Thanks,” he said. “Dean loves Blue Öyster Cult.”

As he drove away, there came the sound of a smooth voice singing a familiar TV jingle, from inside the garage - soft, and fading quickly into the night.

“ _ No one pays like Gas Ton, _ __  
_ Deserves praise like Gas Ton, _ _  
_ __ No one’s oil prices go down for days like Gas Ton...”


	11. Chapter 11

Daylight was just starting to lay its first fingers through the windows of the castle, as Dean sat quietly in the dining room with a bucket and cloth by his side. On a chair above him - one that had been drawn out of the shadows, with a high back - sat the angel.

It was still lined in silver. Hunched over on its chair, it presented a gloomy, macabre sight; the light of the fire in the grate seemed to skitter off its features, reluctant to touch them.

Dean dipped the cloth into the bucket, his freezing fingers warmed by the water.

“I can get more,” said an anxious voice, small and uncertain, from by Dean’s elbow. Donna was hovering, her hands clasped nervously in front of her. “Would that help? More water?”

“It’s OK,” Jody said, and her hand wrapped around Donna’s, ghostly and thin. There was a look on her face; in that moment, out of place and irrelevant, Dean recognised a kind of love that he hadn’t seen before, between them. “He’ll be OK.”

The other ghosts were huddled around, silent with seeming nerves and shock. The amount that they cared was taking Dean aback. He’d seen glimpses of it, before, but hadn’t expected the angel’s wounds to upset them nearly so much.

**I Am Well,** said the beast, apparently in response to their worried faces.  **They are only scratches.**

“You’re covered in blood,” said Kevin, in a tiny voice. “That’s not good.”

**You Have Seen Me Look Worse.**

Dean glanced around the group; most of them seemed to be agreeing with that particular statement.

“I think we need to clean the wounds,” he said. “I’m going to start… doing that. It might sting a little -”

**I Am An Angel. I Do Not Feel-**

The creature hissed and recoiled as Dean touched it with the water, almost upending the bucket and catching Dean across the face. Dean gave a little angry yelp.

“Hold still!”

**It Hurts!**

“It wouldn’t hurt so much if you held  _ still _ .”

**If You Hadn’t Run Away, I Wouldn’t Be Hurt At All.**

“Yeah, well, if you hadn’t scared me to death up in the tower then I wouldn’t have run away!”

**Well, You Should Not Have Been In The West Wing!**

“Well, you should learn to control your temper!” Dean snapped. “Screaming at a guy just for taking a look at a pretty flower isn’t the way to go about making friends!”

The angel’s eyes were hard.

**I Was Not Trying To Make Friends,** it said.

Dean glared at it. “Just stop moving, OK? Then we can leave each other alone.”

The beast’s movement might have been a reluctant shrug. Dean wetted his cloth once more, wrung it out a little, and began to gently wipe away the silver blood. After a few more hisses of pain, the angel was still.

Through touch, Dean began to know its body a little better. Though its very skin seemed to reject the light, it was real and tangible enough under the cloth, under the occasional brush of Dean’s fingers. It was soft - not furry, more like skin, but strange and not unpleasant. It had arms, and legs; a great, wide back; and, rising out of the back, the reason that its figure had seemed so terrifyingly misshapen and incomprehensible up until now.

Wings. Four of them, torn and stained with wolf blood and silver.

Dean carefully mopped around them, sensing from the tension in the beast’s body that this place was the most sensitive and painful. When it was done, Dean offered a little grunt of approval - the angel had been still for minutes at a stretch without complaint, throughout his ministrations.

“His face…” Charlie said. Dean frowned down at the bucket, full of dirty, silverish water. It would do for one last set of cuts, he thought, and dipped the cloth back in.

When the angel turned its face to him - properly, head-on, for the first time - Dean had to swallow hard. It was not quite possible to see it perfectly, but under his hands it felt smooth and strange; the eyes, those blue, blue eyes, were intense and piercing. Fathomless.

“You’re done,” Dean said finally, when all the night’s cruelty had been washed away.

**Good. I Should Heal Soon, Through The Power Of My Grace.**

“What kind of wolf can almost kill an angel?” Dean wondered aloud, as Mrs Tran picked up the bucket and took the cloth from his unresisting hand. 

_ Then again,  _ he added inside his own head,  _ what kind of wolf can smash a rear windscreen with one paw? _

**Those Are Not Normal Wolves.**

“No kidding,” said Dean. He stretched. His eyes were itching; shock and fear had done their work once more, wringing him out like the bloodstained cloth. He blinked sleepily.

**You Should Rest.**

Dean looked up into the angel’s eyes - and for the first time since they’d met, he saw something in them. Something in those eyes that wasn’t unknowable, supernatural, horrifying; something that was as simple as seeing a weary person and saying,  _ sleep, now.  _ Something… kind.

“I should,” he said. He paused. Just a few hours ago, he’d have leapt on the excuse to leave, and gone; now, though, with the beast more knowable - more real, and wounded, and in defence of Dean - the urge to flee was not uncontrollable. “Hey, uh… when you came after me - why’d you do it?”

The angel considered him.

“I mean… was it just because you didn’t want me to escape? Are you going to lock me up, now?”

**No. I Followed You Because You Were In Danger.** The angel seemed to pause, and think, before continuing.

**I Am Weak Outside The Castle Bounds. I Could Not Go Much Further Than I Did Today. I Flew As Fast As I Could To Reach You, Before You Went Beyond My Ability To Help.**

Dean swallowed. He looked to Charlie; she nodded, just once.

“Well,” he said, “thank you. For saving my life.”

The angel looked taken aback by the gratitude.

**You’re welcome,** it said.


	12. Chapter 12

“Rise and shine, sugar plum.”

Dean groaned, and buried his head further into his pillow.

“Don't give me that,” said Charlie's voice above him. “Come on, Princess. It's past noon.”

“Iwenna bedasis,” Dean mumbled indignantly.

“You want a bit of sex?” Dean felt a lighter than light, ghostly pat on his shoulder. “Can't help you there, my guy.”

Dean emerged with bad grace from the mound of pillows and blankets that he'd fallen into, and wiped away the small amount of drool that had gathered at the corner of his mouth.

“I went to bed at six,” he said primly. “I'm allowed to sleep in. Besides, don't tell me Big Guy doesn't think this place looks better in the dark.” He rolled over and collapsed onto his back. “I'll be awake to see him fly around all dark and mysterious and terrifying.” He flapped his arms a couple of times. “Caw, caw.”

He peered over at Charlie to find her watching him with a little smile on her face.

“Uh,” said Dean. He was used to people taking this kind of opportunity to point out how completely bizarre he was. He waited for it.

“Caw, caw?” she said. “Please. It's more of a… fwoosh.  _ Fwoosh fwoosh. _ ” She pulled an exaggeratedly serious face and began to flit around the room, ghostlike, eyeing Dean darkly.

“ _ I hate you sooooo much,”  _ she said. “ _ Fwoosh fwoosh. But I'm still going to chase your dumb ass out into the woods and fight off the wolves and save you, even though you were warned by a very reasonable source that the woods are dangerous.”  _

She dropped her arms and added halfheartedly, “Fwoosh, fwoosh.”

Dean sat up properly, his brow creased.

“I knew it was dangerous,” he said. “I knew that. I was just…”

“Trying to get away,” Charlie said. “I know.”

“I'm sorry,” Dean said. “For ignoring you.”

He blinked, still a little solemn with sleep, into Charlie’s spectral face. She brightened a little under his gaze.

“It's OK,” she said. “Most of why I was annoyed was just wanting to help and not being able to. There was a time I'd have been out there after you, kicking wolf butt.”

Dean looked at her tiny frame, and thought of the wolves - and then saw the glint in her eye at his scepticism, and hastily retracted it. They'd probably turn tail and run just on the strength of that look, Dean thought.

“Well,” he said, “you helped by… being… kind.” It sounded lame, and he knew it; he cringed inwardly. Charlie sighed, and crossed her legs in midair.

“It's normally no big deal, being dead,” she said. “It's just how life is. Haha.”

“Haha,” Dean echoed her dry little non-laugh. “But?”

“But… since you came. I’ve realised… you know, I thought I hadn't changed at all? Since I died. Even though it's been, God, hundreds of years.”

Dean was startled. He frowned.

“No, wait, you know Batman,” he said. “You aren't, like, colonial - are you?”

Charlie waved him off dismissively.

“Time works differently here,” she said. “Slower. It's part of the…” She dropped off, suddenly, looking edgy. “Magic. It's part of the magic.”

Dean, still nestled warmly in the safety of his bed, gave her a look.

“You were going to say something else,” he said. Charlie pulled an innocent face and lifted a shoulder. She was a good liar, Dean reflected, but not  _ that  _ good. “Is anyone ever going to tell me what's going on in this place? How you got here, what the deal is with you and Wings McGee up there in the tower?”

Charlie shifted uncomfortably.

“It's not… important,” she said evasively. “It's just history.”

“I want to understand,” Dean insisted. “I'm supposed to be here forever, right? Who am I going to tell?”

Charlie seemed to consider this, but after a moment she shook her head. “It's not my decision,” she said. “I could ruin everything. It's not my story to tell.” She clapped her hands. “And anyway, we have a whole afternoon ahead of us, and I'm damned if I'm going watch you sit around doing nothing. Life is for the living!” She started to make little chivvying motions with her hands. 

“Charlie -”

“Oh, my God!” Dean's protests were cut short as he rolled out of bed, leaving a trail of dirt in his wake that made Charlie swear.

“Uh,” he said, standing and feeling stupid in the torn leather jacket and filthy jeans that he'd gone out into the woods wearing. 

Charlie glared at him.

“No more gross clothes,” she said. “Time to change.”

“Ah, man…” Dean made a show of protesting, whilst privately agreeing. A bath wouldn't go amiss, either, he thought.

“Now, would you like to try on -”

“I'm not trying on anything,” Dean said firmly. Charlie looked crestfallen.

“But… montage?”

“No montage. No way. Just… do you have anything like what I had before?”

Charlie made a face. “Not really,” she admitted. “We're sort of limited, time-period-wise. It's Rococo or Ro-no-no.”

Dean grimaced. “You cannot be serious. Just because Sir Roarsalot got stuck in the middle ages, we all gotta be?”

“The Middle Ages,” a stern voice issued through the door, “were quite a different era.”

“Morning, Jody,” Dean and Charlie said in unison, in the same dutiful tone. Jody, looking substantial and strong today, eyed them both up, and then gave Dean a rare smile.

“Your car. I like it,” she said. “I didn't see it before.”

Dean relaxed.

“Impala ‘67,” he said proudly. “And still runs sweeter than candy.” With a little blow of recollection, his face dropped. “Oh - but I crashed her. She needs fixing. I might go and see what I can do with her.”

He began to head out of the door, but Charlie appeared in front of him, with the look that would make wolves quake on her face.

“Not dressed like that, you're not,” she said.

*

Dean walked out to where he'd left the struggling Impala, at the base of the steps leading up to the castle's grand front door. It had stopped snowing; the castle gardens were magnificent, sparkling, and statuesque. Dean came down the steps - still slippery, he thought, even when he wasn't haring up or down them. His new boots had less grip than his old working leather ones, too.

Charlie had dressed him with remarkable restraint, Dean thought, considering the wealth of fine clothing he'd glimpsed in her wardrobe. He had on plain dark boots up to the knee, simple brown trousers, and a white shirt that was strangely loose at the neck. He'd insisted on putting the leather jacket back on; it didn't fit perfectly with his new look as some kind of hero in a European Gothic novel, but it didn't look bad - it added a kind of rough, piratical style. The three slashes on the back, from the fight with the wolf, only heightened the effect. Charlie had approved immensely.

“You look like you're ready to start a war and kiss fair maidens,” she'd said. “Or fair knights.”

The simplicity of that acknowledgement - the gentleness of it, the lack of teasing - was still on Dean's mind as he headed down the steps. Who he was, for once, hadn't been a punchline, just a fact. Just something to add into the conversation. Charlie hadn't been making a special effort; it hadn't suddenly occurred to her to be 'inclusive' - it had been natural. Normal.

It had been a simple moment, but a good one.

Dean found the Impala right where he'd left her and patted her hood, before raising it up. He leaned in over the Impala’s engine, and made a soft tutting noise. 

“Oh, Baby,” he said. “I'm sorry. I'm gonna fix this.”

**Do You Often Talk To Your Car?**

Dean cracked his head against the hood as he jumped, standing up too quickly. 

“Christ!”

**Oh - sorry -**

“No, it's…” Dean, one hand against his head, paused to look at the angel. It looked different, even compared to the day before; shorter, its edges clearer, more knowable. Under his gaze, it fidgeted.

Dean stared.

It had  _ fidgeted. _

Even its eyes were a little less round, a little more almond-shaped - a little more human.

“You changed,” Dean said. The angel, still magnificently horrifying and shadowed against the whiteness of the snow, frowned. Dean could see its face move.

**So Did You,** it said, haughtily.

Dean acknowledged this with a sideways dip of his head, and then cleared his throat.

“How are you feeling?” he said, looking back down at the Impala.

**Better.**

“Got a tough hide, huh?” Dean bent over the engine again, and sighed. It was going to take more than his bare hands to fix this. The engine was dented on one side where the cooling system was busted, and the bodywork was crumpled there, too.

**Not As Tough As Yours, Apparently.**

Dean turned, confused, to see the angel indicating his back. Putting a hand there, Dean felt the frayed edges of his jacket and remembered the scratch marks. For the first time, it struck him as strange that the wolves could pierce the skin of an angel, could punch through solid glass, but they had been stemmed by the jacket’s protection.

**Does That Jacket Possess Supernatural Properties?**

Dean shrugged exaggeratedly. “I mean, it was my dad’s. It’s been in the family for years and it hasn’t done any cartwheels around the house, or anything.”

**Ah, yes,** said the angel.  **Cartwheels, the ultimate signifier of the arcane.**

Dean squinted.

“Was that a joke?” he said. “Are you making jokes, now?”

The angel paused. Its -  _ his,  _ Dean corrected himself, for the first time - his face seemed caught between amusement and awkwardness.

**Maybe,** he said.

Dean smiled slightly, and shook his head. “Of course,” he said. “Angels make jokes. I mean, why not?”

**No cartwheels, though,** the angel said solemnly.

Dean shook his head in mock sadness. “Shame,” he sighed. “If someone had told me that there was a cartwheeling angel here, I’d have rolled up years ago. No imprisonment necessary.” He reached down behind the Impala’s engine, checking for any leaks.

The angel seemed to flinch at the mention of Dean’s status as prisoner; when it spoke again, its voice was infused with a more subtle emotion than Dean had heard before.

**I hope at least that you are not unhappy, here.**

Dean, his attention carefully fixed on the engine, considered how to respond.

“I like the ghosts,” he said. “They all seem to have fun.”

**You fit in with them.**

Dean blinked. He realised, with a little kick of his heart, that the angel was right. He  _ did  _ fit in; he was beginning to belong, in a way that he hadn’t ever with a group of people. With time, he’d become a part of them.

“Maybe,” he said aloud. “And you?”

Lifting his head up from the engine, Dean saw the angel tilt its head sideways.

**I… no.**

Dean raised an eyebrow.

**I am not easily part of the group.**

There, at least, was something that Dean could understand. He nodded, and kept his eyes on the angel’s eyes as he said,

“Yeah, I get that feeling. It’s hard, being on the outside.”

**I wonder what I do wrong, sometimes,** the angel said. Dean shook his head.

“Sometimes no one’s doing anything wrong,” he said. “It’s just… you’re different people. Neither of you should change or anything. It’s just - you don’t fit.”

**I wish I did.**

Dean cleared his throat. The angel was proving unexpectedly forthright, intriguing in its honesty. It was simultaneously exciting and frightening to be given this information - and to speak so openly of a sentiment he’d kept hidden for so many years.

“I know,” he said. “You wish you could be different.”

**Yes. That you could be effortless.**

Dean nodded.

“Maybe with the right person, you could be,” he said.

**So my readings have led me to believe. They speak of relationships in which one is free to say what one thinks, what one feels, and the other person enjoys listening, and mutual happiness ensues.**

Dean nodded.

“Something like that… yeah,” he said. “You’ve been reading romances, have you?” He grinned. There was something heartwarming about the image of this ethereal being, dripping with otherness and ineffable power, curled up with a cheap paperback.

**No,** the angel said, sounding indignant.  **Philosophy.**

“Oh,” Dean said. “Huh.” He went back to tinkering at the engine for a while, his deft hands checking over every valve, every plug, making sure he hadn’t missed anything. It was useless, of course - the car was broken, and needed to be fixed in a way that he couldn’t perform now, without tools - but his palms felt right on the cold metal; his mind felt right when it was trying to mend.

**Well,** the angel conceded after a few moments,  **maybe one or two romances.**

Dean smiled, and kept working.


	13. Chapter 13

“Let’s meet in person,” Light had said on the phone. “It’s better that way.” And so Sam had driven out to the edge of the woods, where Light had asked him to go.

Now, he breathed in the hot, sultry summer air, and tried not to want a cigarette. He’d only ever smoked one once, out of curiosity; his job in the city and his work as a lawyer had him competing to be healthier and fitter than the rest of his colleagues. Besides, he usually genuinely enjoyed the feeling of being good to himself.

These days, he wanted to burn from the inside out.

When Light drew up, it was in a flashy car - a red Ferrari, all low hood and sleekness and money. Sam found himself caught by surprise by the ostentatiousness; he’d somehow imagined Light to be more understated, but it seemed he wasn’t above a little showing off.

“Sammy,” Light said, stepping out of the car. “My man.” Sam shook off his annoyance at the nickname; he needed Light’s help, and that meant being polite.

“Dean’s through here,” he said, indicating the wood. “Do you have people coming?”

“One day ain’t enough to raise an army, kid,” Light said. Sam clenched his fists.

“Every day he’s there -” he began, but Light waved him down.

“Believe me, Sam, I’m as eager as you are to get into that place. We’ll get there together.”

He clapped Sam on the shoulder, and at the back of Sam’s mind, he felt something stir - a little coldness, a little strangeness.

He brushed it off.


	14. Chapter 14

That night, Dean ate with the ghosts; their spirits were running high, with the angel back to relative health, and they were a raucous group. Dean found a suit of armour in one of the corridors, and to general yells - of both excitement and disapproval - tried to get into it.

When the castle grew colder and night truly set in, Jody began to make her familiar tutting noises, and the group broke up so that Dean could go to bed. He still had no familiarity with the castle; Kevin, as the youngest, and therefore the fittest - it was reasoned - was nominated to guide him to his room.

“We’re ghosts,” Kevin said. “We don’t even have any musculature any more. We’re all as fit as each other. We’re all  _ dead. _ ”

Dean, still uncomfortable with the occasional reminders of this fact, laughed awkwardly. Kevin seemed to pick up on Dean’s hesitation; he cast a little sideways glance, his translucent face knowing.

“Do you mind us all being dead?”

Dean chewed his lip. They ascended the next staircase in silence.

“Do  _ you  _ mind being dead?” he countered eventually. Kevin raised an eyebrow.

“I asked first.”

Dean smiled at the middle-school rule, and conceded. “No,” he said, as they went down the next corridor, “and also yes. No, because you’re all awesome, and being ghosts doesn’t seem to have slowed you down any. And yes, because… it makes me sad. I wish you were alive.”

“You ‘n’ me both,” Kevin said. “Well… sort of.”

“Huh?”

Kevin lifted a shoulder.

“Being alive… it was okay,” he said. “You know, I was in Advanced Placement.”

Dean acknowledged this with a nod; Kevin seemed to be waiting for more.

“Wow,” Dean improvised, trying to sound impressed. “That’s cool. You, uh -”

“It was a lot of work. Seventeen-hour days.”

“No kidding,” Dean said, genuinely impressed this time. Kevin lifted a shoulder.

“Don’t get me wrong,” he said. “Being alive had its good points. But here, I’ve got a family. I don’t have to break my brain over math every day of the week. I don’t have to worry about scholarships and colleges and internships. Like… it’s a lot less pressure.”

Dean nodded along; he could see that. They reached the staircase with the wide window, and both Dean and Kevin - by mutual agreement - paused at it, and looked out. The moon was no longer quite full, but it still shed enough light that they could see the tableau below, beautiful and untouchable.

“I mean, you get it, right? You were going to throw yourself off the cell in the tower. Charlie told me.”

Dean shifted uncomfortably.

“That wasn’t… that,” he said. “I didn’t want to die. I just… wanted to do what was best for my brother.”

“You care about your brother that much?”

“Yes,” Dean said, without hesitation.

“And it didn’t matter to you, whether you were alive or not?” Dean looked sharply over at Kevin; the kid had a quick mind, it was undeniable.

“Not - not so much, I guess. I don’t know. It just didn’t seem important, at the time.”

Kevin watched him, waiting for more. Dean shrugged.

“Well,” he said. “No one much would miss me, if I went, apart from Sam. I don’t play a big part in the whole… rest of the world. I don’t know. I guess I just figured, that was the way I could be of most use. That was what I could do to make things better.” Dean's fist thudded softly against the window in time with each  _ that,  _ for emphasis.

Kevin looked thoughtful.

**You Treat Yourself Like An Instrument,** said the voice of the angel; both Dean and Kevin jumped.  **Not A Person. You Are More Than Your Ability To Help. You Aren’t Only The One Doing The Saving. You Also Deserve To Be Saved.**

The words rang into the silence.

**I think,** said the angel, in less certain tones.

“Castiel?” said Dean. He couldn’t see the angel in the dark, but sensed he was there.

**Yes, Dean?**

Dean wondered what it was that made the angel’s name feel good on his lips - what made his heart beat faster when the angel said his own name, in return. There was something there, he couldn’t deny it - a little intensity of feeling, something that he couldn’t put a name to. It confused him.

“It’s rude to listen to other people’s conversations,” he said.

**Oh.**

“It’s like… personal space, you know? At least tell us you’re there.”

The angel was quiet for a few moments.

**I’m here,** it said.

Dean repressed a smile, and shook his head.

“I know that  _ now. _ ”

Castiel thought for a few seconds longer.

**I will leave you in peace,** it said, and with a swish of wings - Charlie had been right, Dean reflected, it really was a  _ fwoosh -  _ he was gone.

When Dean looked back at Kevin, the ghost had an expression on his face that Dean found himself called out by, somehow.

“What?” he said.

“I heard you laughing with him, earlier,” Kevin said. “He doesn’t do that. Like, ever.”

Dean shrugged self-consciously.

“Well, I was the one laughing,” he said. “Castiel was just saying stuff. I was trying to show him how engines work.”

“Hmm.” Kevin nodded. “Good.”

Dean eyed him curiously.

“What’s the deal?” he said. “With you and him? 'You' being all the ghosts, I mean. I’ve asked, but no one will tell me what’s going on. It’s frustrating.”

He was trying the honest, sincere approach; Kevin seemed slightly alarmed by it.

“I can’t - I’m not supposed to talk about the rose,” he said. “Or the tree.”

Dean frowned.

“Tree? What tree?” He paused for a moment, thinking. “This has something to do with the rose?”

Kevin looked as though he were kicking himself. “...No.”

“Right. Uh huh.” Dean blew out a sigh, and shook his head, looking back out the window. “I don’t know, man. It’s a lot to get your head around, the idea of being here forever. And not knowing anything, not getting who you all are or why I’m even here, it’s just - like, am I going to be like you one day? Charlie said that time moves differently here. Am I going to die and become like you in like, sixty years?”

Kevin shook his head, hard.

“Nah,” he said.

“It’s  _ no,  _ Kevin,” Dean said, in a passable impression of Mrs Tran. Kevin laughed, and if he’d been Charlie, he would have flipped Dean off; as it was, he just shook his head.

“Look,” he said, “I can’t tell you about most of it. It’s just… it’s not mine to tell. But I can tell you about me… I can tell you about before.”

Dean frowned, but nodded - encouraging Kevin on.

“I’m… I think that’d be okay. I don’t really talk about it with the others. We all already know.”

“Sometimes… it’s good to talk about stuff,” Dean said, reaching in the dark for the right thing to say.

“Yeah…”

“You don’t have to, though. I want to understand but, like… you shouldn’t say anything - if you shouldn’t say it,” Dean said lamely.

“No, I think - I think it’s okay.” Kevin took a deep breath. 

“See, I didn’t even know anyone here except Mom, before it happened. Before the day we - we died. We were just all at a park in the city, one of the small ones, just a few flowers and - and trees. I was there with Mom because she was getting me ice cream. I’d just got full marks on my bio test.” Kevin smiled, staring out at the gardens without really seeing them. “I got mint choc chip, and I was eating it in the park. And Charlie was there, reading on a bench. Jody was there, eating her lunch. Donna was there, patrolling. She was on duty. And then…” Kevin swallowed. “We died.”

Dean narrowed his eyes in sympathy.

“Just… like that?”

“I remember bright light. So much light. And then wings - and then nothing.”

“Angels?”

“Castiel. And… another one - yeah. It was Castiel’s mission to save - something - but instead, he saved us.”

Dean shook his head.

“I don’t get it.”

“In the park,” Kevin explained. “The other angel wanted something, and Castiel was sent from Heaven to protect it. But instead of protecting the - the thing, he tried to save us. He was too late, but he managed to catch our spirits, and pour them into tethers.” Kevin smiled. “There was a junk shop on the corner by the park. Antiques. He picked up whatever he could find. Apparently, the place did a great trade in Rococo design.”

“He… saved you?” Dean said, making sure that he was following.

“He did what he could,” Kevin said. “We were past saving completely. But he gave us something. Built this castle up around us, gave us what he could. We’re sort of… still here.”

There was something in his tone that was a little rueful; distracted, Dean looked at Kevin with a new concern.

“You don’t want to still be here?”

Kevin lifted a ghostly shoulder.

“I don’t know,” he said, dropping his voice. “It’s complicated. We all feel it… like - like we were alive, and now we’re not, you know? And we’ve all changed; time changes us.” 

Dean remembered what Charlie had said, that morning -  _ I thought I hadn’t changed, since I died.  _ But she must have done - and maybe not in a way that she liked. Being unable to touch, unable to eat, unable to fully participate in her surroundings - feeling weak and thin and tethered… 

Dean shook his head. He’d never choose it.

“So… why don’t you…?” Dean said. “I mean, can you… let go?”

“Castiel saved us,” Kevin said simply. “He shouldn’t be alone.”

Dean had nothing he could say to that. He was quiet, trying to understand what he’d learned.

Outside, it began to snow again.


	15. Chapter 15

The next morning found Dean already awake, knocking on Charlie’s wardrobe to wake her.

“Rise and shine, sugar plum,” he said, as her tousled, ghostly hair fell into her eyes when she sat up out of her wooden home. He grinned, and wished he could ruffle it. “Let’s go!”

“Mmmm… five more minutes,” she said, and flopped back down, out of sight.

Dean didn’t pout, but he was in that area. He considered knocking again, but decided to take pity; he didn’t know how draining it might be to always on the move, as a ghost, he reasoned. Maybe she needed the time to replenish herself.

But what else was there to do? Dean left his room, padding out of his bedroom in his new boots, the leather jacket feeling safe and secure round his shoulders. He waited for the usual pound of fear to weigh into his chest as he began to walk around the castle - but it didn’t come.

He thought about Castiel - about how different he seemed, now. Partly after Kevin’s story, and partly after the simplicity of shared experience; the angel being willing to sacrifice himself, and his own interests, and his orders from Heaven, just to try to save little human beings…

It made Dean like him just a little. It was not a feeling Dean had ever expected to experience. And beyond his kindness, there was something about Castiel that was almost…  _ sweet,  _ Dean thought, wandering, letting his feet take him where they wanted. He was goofy, which for an eldritch beast of supernatural origin seemed counterintuitive - but it was endearing.

_ He’s still your jailer,  _ Dean reminded himself.  _ You aren’t free.  _

He only woke from his reverie when he realised where his meandering had led him: to the door of the West Wing, the place with the rose - the place where Castiel had frightened him so badly that he’d run for the woods.

_ Should walk away,  _ Dean thought. He shuffled his feet, preparing to leave, and yet not quite doing it.

Castiel was probably behind that door. Against probability, against common sense, Dean found himself wanting to knock on it - wanting to see Castiel. Wanting to spend time with him. The heady feeling of their honesty, the openness, the naturalness of their conversation was still within him; he felt  _ good,  _ he realised. He felt energised and refreshed. He wanted more.

But Castiel was an  _ angel.  _ It would be outright stupid to assume that Dean could just expect to - to spend time with him? Was that what Dean wanted? How could he possibly want that, being his prisoner? 

How could he  _ not  _ want that, after finding Castiel to be self-sacrificing and thoughtful and funny, in a strange and dry kind of way?

Dean stood in front of the door, a mess of indecision - until, eventually, it swung open. The slowness of the door’s movement elicited from it a low, deep groan.

**Dean?**

Dean put his hands behind his back, like a schoolboy expecting punishment. Castiel stood framed in the doorway; if Dean wasn’t mistaken, he’d lost another foot at least in height, and his hand was smaller and more human-shaped, resting on the door.

“Hey,” he said. “Uh - hey. Sorry for…” He waved his hands, to indicate his general presence. Castiel looked bemused. His face, too, had altered, Dean thought. The expressions on it were clearer.

**You are welcome here.**

He stepped back, inviting Dean inside with an awkward half-wave of his hand. Dean, suddenly and abysmally shy, walked inside silently.

**Did you want something?**

Dean tried to focus his attention on looking around the room, as though he’d been waiting outside the door in hopes of viewing Castiel’s extensive and messy library again, or his shattered vases.

“You know,” he said casually. “Just to hang out.”

Castiel looked at him blankly.

**Hang out?**

“Yeah,” Dean said, for all the world as though this were a normal thing to ask. “Sure. Do you want to?”

Castiel considered; there was a slight edge to his expression that gave Dean the distinct impression that Castiel was only  _ pretending  _ to consider. The idea that both of them were playing their feelings cool made him smile, just a little. He hid it by turning away and walking over to the plants on the table that he’d discovered before. Even before he reached them, the scent of honeysuckle wound through the air towards him.

**I wouldn’t mind trying,** Castiel said, after a few moments.

Dean’s smile widened. He couldn’t help the little explosion of warmth in his chest, and wondered at it.  _ What is happening right now?  _ he thought.  _ Two days ago I was scared of you. Now we’re going to hang out. _

“Cool,” he said. He gently pinched one of the leaves of the plants between two fingers, checking that it wouldn’t crackle. “You’re growing wonderfully,” he told it. “Nice one.”

The honeysuckles bounced their blooms under his touch, seeming pleased.

“That’s right, you should feel proud. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Work that look.” 

Dean realised, suddenly, that Castiel was quietly watching him, and looked up.

**Don’t let me disturb you,** Castiel said dryly.

Dean pulled a faux-serious face.

“Actually, you are kind of disturbing,” he said solemnly.

**Oh, my apologies. I didn’t realise you really wanted to ‘hang out’ with the flowers.**

Dean shrugged. “I didn’t realise the flowers were going to be so good at sparkling conversation.”

**I’ll leave you alone, shall I?**

“If you wouldn’t mind. We’ll play Truth or Dare, or something.”

**Truth or Dare?**

Dean whistled. “Boy, I can’t believe Charlie didn’t introduce you to that one.” He turned his attention back to the plants, picking them up by the rims of their terracotta pots and peering underneath.

“Pot-bound,” he said. “And not in the four-twenty way.”

Castiel looked mystified, and Dean raised up the pot so that the angel could see underneath.

“See the roots poking out the holes at the bottom? They’re outgrowing their pots. You need to put them in bigger ones, or they’ll get unhealthy. They aren’t getting the nutrients they need, that’s why the roots are growing. They’re looking for more plant food.” He tweaked a leaf gently. “Huh? Isn’t that right? You’re hungry.”

Castiel watched him, his expression deeply thoughtful.

**You like plants?**

“I like things that grow,” Dean said. “I have a, like - like a herb garden, I guess? Back at home. It’s small, though. One day, I want to have a bigger one. I just never have the time to grow more plants from seed and take care of them. It’d just be a waste.”

Castiel didn’t reply to this; he only held out his hand.

**Come with me,** he said.  **I want to show you something.**

Dean wasn’t sure if he was meant to take the hand, or just follow Castiel out of the room. He settled on giving the hand a soft high-five as he passed; afterwards, Castiel looked down at his hand as though confused by what had just happened.

At the door, Dean turned.

“Well?” he said, waiting for Castiel to lead the way.

**Does this still count as hanging out? Showing you something?**

Dean considered.

“I guess so,” he said. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure.”

**Good,** said Castiel.  **I was enjoying it.**

*****

**Don’t open your eyes.**

“I’m not, I’m not.” Dean allowed himself to be led, Castiel’s hands on his shoulders. They felt surprisingly warm, and strong. They’d already managed to navigate three corridors and a staircase, and Dean had only nearly fallen over once - almost tripping over the helmet from the suit of armour he’d tried to put on before, which had been left on the floor.

**I’m going to take my hands away.**

“Are we here?”

**Do Not Open Your Eyes.**

“Don’t take that tone with me,” Dean said, and then remembered who he was talking to - but Castiel made a little noise that Dean was  _ almost  _ certain had been a chuckle.

**I just need to…**

There was a swishing sound, as if of curtains being opened, and sudden light flooded in; even behind Dean’s closed eyelids, it felt golden and good. He turned his face towards it appreciatively.

“Can I open them?”

**Not yet.**

There was a clattering, one that Dean couldn’t completely interpret - it sounded like bowls clinking together.

“Now?”

**Yes… now.**

Dean opened his eyes, and was greeted by  _ green. _

Everywhere he looked, there were plants. Up high, hanging from the ceiling, spilling out of baskets; on tables, in the centre of the room; and on shelves, shelves that lined the entire length of one side of the room. On the other side, there was a wall of glass: windows huge enough to let in enough light to feed this botanical menagerie. Dean, his mouth open, started to move among the plants; as he got closer, he could smell rich soil, and fresh leaves, and notes of heady floral perfume. There were long-fronded ferns that wisped against the backs of his hands as he passed, and tiny, colourful violas that showed off their petals like little children in pretty dresses. There were sweet, small succulents, and herbs, too - the scent reminding Dean wonderfully of his own kitchen, sharp chives and romantic rosemary and thyme, and soft reassuring basil. He took in a great, deep breath.

In a world of snow and stone, he hadn’t realised how much he had missed living things.

**You like it?** Castiel said.

Dean turned towards him; the angel was standing off to one side, and his body language was fluent nervousness and anticipation.

“I love it,” Dean said, overawed. The room could have fit his entire house into it; it was taller and grander and lighter and more beautiful than he could possibly have imagined a garden room to be.

**Then it’s yours.**

“Mine?” Dean shook his head. “No. Come on. Stop kidding around.”

**I’m not. If you like it, it’s for you.**

“Like… a gift?”

**Yes.**

Dean found himself unable to speak for a few seconds, not trusting his voice to be steady. No one, in his entire length of life, had given him anything like this.

“Thanks,” he said shortly, eventually. It was all he could manage.

**They need some work, I think. Maybe more of them are... pot-bound.**

“You got more pots?”

Castiel silently indicated an area filled with large stacks of them in one corner, some of the piles toppling over. They looked quietly beautiful, too, in their own way - their rusty colour set off by the warm, rough wood of the floor.

“Let’s get to work,” Dean said.

**Will that still be hanging out?**

Dean smiled. “Yeah. We’ll still be hanging out.”

Castiel nodded, satisfied.  **Then let’s hang out here.**

Dean turned around, hands on hips, to take one last look at the plants as a whole before they got down to business with repotting. It was a spectacle the like of which he had never seen before: soft, natural, beautiful. The green seemed to glow off the leaves, a gentle aura of health and growth and life.

“You like plants, huh,” Dean said quietly, when Castiel came to stand beside him.

**I like things that grow,** Castiel replied.

They worked throughout the morning; when Mrs Tran brought Dean lunch, he ate the sandwich with his fingertips, his palms stained green with sap and brown with soil. And in the afternoon, they didn’t want to leave; so they worked on.

At four thirty-three, Dean took off his leather jacket. It was getting in the way.


	16. Chapter 16

In the heat of the day, Light’s car was a little haven of coldness. Sam sat in the plush leather seat, breathing in the scent of casual opulence. Even if he got to the very top of his law firm, Sam reflected - even if money should flow through his hands like water - he would never be able to carry off showiness like Light did. At first, Sam had thought the Ferrari was too much; but with the way Light drove it, it wasn’t enough. It could barely keep up with him.

“We’ll get the chopper in,” Light was saying. “And I know a guy who owes me a favour who works in artillery, ammunition, that kind of thing. We’ll get ourselves some real firepower. That’s what we need.”

“That’s what we need,” Sam agreed. The words came to his lips almost automatically. That was happening more and more; for a moment, it worried him-

Light reached out and clapped him on the shoulder. He smiled, and Sam set aside his doubts. Light was going to help him get Dean back. Anything was worth it, for that. Anything, for his brother to not be trapped in that place.


	17. Chapter 17

Days passed, in the glow of the garden room. Dean felt himself relaxing more, day by day; Castiel had that openness, that lack of judgement, which eased the air and made everything feel more natural, more genuine. Dean talked to the plants as he went about his work repotting, rearranging, trimming, and watering; Castiel didn’t seem to mind. Once, he remarked,

**You like talking to inanimate objects.**

Dean shrugged, as he carried a full watering can - old, metal, worked delicately with a curlicued handle - over to a struggling forsythia.

“I’ll talk to anything that’ll listen.” He began to water the plant, drops showering down onto the dry leaves through the can’s metal rose. It made a gentle sound, a tiny rainfall.

**Yes. I recall watching you having an argument with a wardrobe, on one of your first nights here.**

Dean put down the watering can, and placed his hands on his hips.

“Cas,” he said. “We’ve talked about this. Personal space? Not listening in on me?”

Castiel had the grace to look abashed, though he still defended himself.

**We had not had that conversation at that time,** he said, a little primly.

Dean conceded this with a sideways dip of the head. “True.” He picked up the watering can again, and strode across the garden room towards the big old sink to one side. He cast a glance back over his shoulder at Castiel, who was quietly dead-heading a chrysanthemum. “That was when I still thought you were a -”

**Murderous, heinous beast.**

Dean raised his hands defensively, the empty watering can swinging in his grip.

“Hey, don’t blame me. Blame the guy in the room who thought that screaming and hiding in shadows and being all  _ I’m going to roar in your face and scare you half to death  _ was a good idea.” Dean nodded emphatically, and put the can down in the cracked old sink, and turned on the tap. Castiel, meanwhile, seemed distracted; he was still watching Dean, but he had a look in his eyes that Dean knew to be unfocused, pensive.

“What?” Dean said, one hand resting on the old bronze faucet.

Castiel blinked - actually blinked, which Dean didn’t think he’d seen before.

**Nothing. I - I was thinking about how much you look like you belong here.**

Dean looked down at himself: a white shirt, plain trousers, boots. Dirt on his hands, and his skin more and more tanned from working every day in the garden room, with its wide windows. The cold of the snow could not touch them in here; only the bright wintery sun reached through, and warmed them.

“You think?” 

**Frequently,** Castiel said, as dry as ever. **But not always about you.**

Dean rolled his eyes, and then pulled a fake-sad face.

“Often about me, though, right?”

**Yes.**

The simplicity and genuineness of the answer put roses on Dean’s cheeks, and they did not fade for some time. They worked on in companionable silence.


	18. Chapter 18

**Truth.**

Dean, sitting down beside a sofa in the West Wing, picked up a grape and ate it. He was feeling loose and relaxed after a hard day of work in the garden room; they’d done some major restructuring of the place, shifting pots around and finally managing to shift the giant palm in the corner to a new home, where it would get more sunlight. Now, Dean was sitting on a cushion eating fruit, while Castiel - reclining on the sofa - read a book. His angelic form looked oddly elegant, stretched out on the old French-style chaise longue.

“Truth? OK. Uh…” Dean considered. He pulled the shirt he was wearing back up his shoulder; its wide neckline gave it a tendency to slip down. Castiel had said it made Dean look - he’d paused - dashing. Dean had laughed at him for using the word  _ dashing. _

**Nothing too…** Castiel said now, and trailed off - apparently seeking an adjective by which he could curtail the giving away of any invasive truths.

“Ah, ah. You don’t get to impose rules,” Dean said. He ate another grape. “OK. Here we go. I’ve been wanting to ask this, so. My question is: you know your favourite pronoun?”

**He?**

“Yeah. Do you really like it the most, or did you just choose it to fit in better with the ghosts?”

Castiel went quiet. Dean ate a grape.

**You utilised your question when you asked, ‘you know your favourite pronoun’,** Castiel said eventually.  **I do not have to answer.**

Dean scoffed.

“What are you?” he said. “A genie out the Thousand and One Nights looking for a loophole? Answer the question, scaredy-cat.”

He turned to look at Castiel, who had a peeved expression on his face.

**Well… the truth is, I did initially choose the pronoun because I was tired of Donna and Jody and the others calling me ‘it’,** he said.  **The terminology made me feel like an animal. But over time, ‘he’ has come to feel right. I chose the pronoun to fit in, but now I’ve kept it because I like it and it fits me.**

Dean threw a grape in the air; without hesitation, Castiel caught it. The angel ate it, chewing slowly. Dean - who had only seen Castiel eat a couple of times before in the past - watched surreptitiously.

“Taste of anything?”

**Molecules.**

Dean nodded.

“Well, you’re not wrong.”

**Truth or Dare?**

Dean leaned his head back against the arm of the sofa. He was too lazy to choose dare; he might have to get up. The cushion beneath him felt like the most comfortable place on Earth, right now - and having Castiel lazing behind him felt right, in a way he couldn’t put his finger on.

He wondered at himself, briefly. At the warmth in his chest that he felt when Castiel was behind him - the angel that he’d met, that had terrified him, that had seemed to hate him. And now, they relaxed together.

“Truth.”

**Now I ask a question?**

“Yeah. And that counted. My turn; Truth or D-”

Dean laughed as Castiel cut him off with a sharp poke to the head. He chucked a grape behind him, hard, which Castiel caught with precision and ate.

“Go on, then,” he said.

**Very well. My question is: have you ever had your heart broken?**

Dean pulled a face.

“That’s what you want to know?”

**Yes.**

“Why?” He swivelled on his cushion to look at Castiel properly, his brows drawn down.

**I have read of heartbreak. I do not understand it. I want to know if you have information about it.**

Dean gave himself time to think by chewing on another grape.

**If the question is too personal…**

“No, no. These are the game rules, anyway.” Dean didn’t  _ need  _ an excuse to talk, but it felt better to have one, somehow - permission to be honest, dressed up as an obligation. “OK, uh. Yeah. Yeah, I’ve been heartbroken before. Couple times. Worst one was right after my mom died.”

**Your mother?**

Dean nodded. “I was only small. I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

**You didn’t?**

Dean shook his head. “Heart attack. It was so sudden. Random chance, they said. She had a congenital weakness.” He swallowed hard. “I was there… she - her face…” He broke off. “I called 911 but they didn’t come fast enough. All I could do was watch.”

**I’m sorry, Dean.**

“It’s OK…” Dean said, pulling himself together with an effort. “Anyway, yeah. That was the time I had my heart broken… the worst. Weird, right? It’s supposed to be just when you get dumped or something.”

**What did it feel like?**

Lifting a shoulder, Dean made a face. “Like they say in the songs. It hurts.”

**It hurts… in your body?**

“Yeah. It’s a physical… thing.” Dean patted his chest awkwardly, feeling himself clamming up. “Here.”

Castiel frowned.  **I see,** he said.

“It’s weird because I was too little to, like - get it? I didn’t know why it hurt so bad. I thought...” Dean felt his eyes blurring, and tilted his head upwards. He pinched his lips small for a moment, to stop them downturning. “I, uh. I thought I was dying of the same thing as Mom at first. Because when it was - was happening, the only thing she had time to say was, it hurt her chest really bad. I was scared, you know, like... because then, who would take care of Sam? So I asked my school nurse if there was something I could do to make my heart better so I wouldn’t die.”

**What did they say?**

“She gave me a hug,” Dean said. He could remember the scent of her, clean with a hint of strawberry shampoo - and the hardness of her arms.

**And that helped?**

“Well,” said Dean, “Mom hugged better. But yeah, it helped. I felt the pain… move? It’s hard to explain, that sounds stupid, but… when it moved, I knew it could get less, one day. So it helped.”

Castiel bent his head in acknowledgement.

**Thank you.**

“For what?”

**Trust.**

Dean considered blowing this off, ignoring it - but that didn’t feel natural. The atmosphere between them was soft, warm, a small sphere of comfortable safety. He relaxed.

“It’s OK,” he said. “I don’t mind.”


	19. Chapter 19

“So, you and Jody, huh?” Dean said, wrapped up in a blanket by the fire in the dining room one night. The group of ghosts had dispersed after dinner to go to bed; Dean no longer needed help to navigate around the castle, but nevertheless it had become the tradition for one of them to stay with him until he was ready to go to his room.

Donna, in response to Dean’s question, tried to lean casually on the mantelpiece over the fire. Her elbow went through it, just a little.

“Oh, well,” she said. “You know. No. Well, yeah, I mean - yeah.”

Dean, whose grin had been widening throughout her fumbling, took a sip of the hot chocolate that Mrs Tran had made for him and schooled his expression.

“You guys seem to really care about each other.”

Donna brightened. “You think so?”

“You don’t?”

Donna’s spectral features creased with worry. Dean watched her think about what she wanted to say, his hands wrapped around the steaming mug, fire warming his face. The armchair was so comfortable; he was almost falling asleep in it.

“She’s short with me a lot. I mean, I know my Pops always used to say that some people just show affection like that. Crabs only have pincers and no hands.” Dean accepted the latest aphorism with forbearance. “But it sure makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong most of the time.”

Dean shook his head.

“Nah,” he said. And then,

“It’s  _ no,  _ Kevin,” they both said together, automatically, and laughed.

“Seriously, though,” Dean said. “You should see her face when she looks at you sometimes. She likes you a lot.”

Donna brightened visibly; her features came into sharper focus, as though her happiness somehow tied her closer to the visible plane. “You think?”

“I know,” Dean said. He tilted his head back to rest against the back of the armchair, his eyes growing heavy.

“You sure are a good one for relationship advice. Wouldn’t have called that when you walked in. You have someone special?”

Dean took a sip of his hot chocolate.

“Never been a relationship kind of guy, before,” he said gruffly. “Seemed like just opening up the possibility of a world of hurt. Like, how are you supposed to know that the other person won’t just… leave? Or suddenly decide they don’t like you? I mean, I’ve been on a few dates back home. But most girls freaked when they found out I’m bisexual and not straight, and the one guy I went out with freaked when he found out I’m bisexual and not gay.” He shrugged. “Didn’t feel all that worth trying, after that.”

“You need to be somewhere different,” Donna said firmly. “Somewhere where there are people like you.”

“Like… the city?” Dean said unwillingly, remembering Crowley’s words - God, that felt like a lifetime ago.  _ Girls. Boys. In-betweens. _

“Well,” Donna said, “I was thinking more of... here. The castle. You’ve got me and Jody, Charlie, and… whatever Castiel is. I don’t even know. I don’t know if he even knows. He hasn’t had a lot of opportunity for self-exploration.”

Dean, who had been on the point of dropping off to sleep, sat up.

“No?”

“Nah. Not a lot of romantic opportunities. I mean… it’s kind of the whole problem, right?”

“The whole problem with what?”

Donna frowned for a moment, and then her eyes went wide with what looked like mixed realisation and consternation. “Nothing,” she said hastily. “Well, I mean - the whole problem with… being an angel. You know, being expected to be above all that, or something.” She smiled weakly, an attempt to cover the moment.

Dean sat back, not bothering to reply. Secrets, all these secrets. 

One second Donna was saying that he belonged in the castle, with people like himself - and then the next second, she was shutting him out. How could she think he’d ever belong if they wouldn’t let him into their world completely? What was it, this thing that was so terrible that Dean wasn’t allowed to know it - the thing that he kept running up against?

If Donna wanted to kid herself that Dean was a guest, a trusted person within their home, then she was welcome to do so. But so long as there was so much left unsaid, Dean wasn’t going to let himself be taken in - he was still a prisoner, still an outsider. Held at arm’s length, mistrusted.

The words of his conversation with Castiel returned to him.  _ Thank you. For what? Trust.  _ Dean felt a little burn in the pit of his stomach. He was giving too much away, to someone who gave away nothing so deep and important.

“You like him?” Donna said eventually, into the quiet. “Castiel?”

Dean, taken by surprise by the question, continued to stare into the fire calmly even as his mind ran several quick loops, trying to decide how to answer.

“He’s my jailer,” he eventually settled on. “How could I like him.” He made it a statement, not a question, in the hopes of dissuading his mind from providing all the answers. Even still, they rolled out in his mind:  _ because of his kindness. Because of his humour. Because he likes growing things. Because he’s intelligent but not judgemental or showy. Because he’s like no one I’ve ever met. Because it comes so easy to just talk with him, because I’ve told him things I don’t talk about with many people - any people - _

“You ever thought of asking him why he imprisoned you in the first place?” Donna said. “Or your brother?”

Dean pulled a face.

“Because he was being a dick?”

Donna’s expression was complicated.

“No,” she said. “That’s not the reason.”

She would say no more about it. When she led Dean up to bed, she looked troubled.

Dean went to sleep that night, and in his dreams he asked questions to the mirror - and the empty mirror had no answers.


	20. Chapter 20

“We’re going soon, right?” Sam asked, drumming his fingers on the table. Light, sitting opposite him in a sleek, polished office in the city, nodded absently.

“Yeah,” he said. He was on his phone, typing. Sam stared around the office, trying to find something to distract himself with. The office was all dark-wood class and heavy leather chairs; up on one wall, a stag's head was mounted.

"What is  _that?"_

Light looked up impatiently, following Sam's eyeline.

"It's a stag," he said. "What? I use antlers in all of my decorating."

Sam made a face.

"Why am I being attacked for this?" Light demanded, insouciant, one hand lounging elegantly over the arm of his chair.

"I'm not, I'm not, it's just -" Sam sighed, and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Light. It’s been over two weeks. My _brother_ is in there and I’m waiting on your say-so because I want your help to get through the wood, but if it doesn’t hurry up, I’m going to have to go in alone.”

Light looked up at him properly, his eyes flashing; for a second, Sam saw impatience - even anger - in them, and clenched his fists. After a moment, however, Light smoothed himself out, made himself polite once more.

“Sam, I know you’d do anything to save your brother,” he said. “And I know that you’re getting more desperate and more willing to do something reckless to save him with every day that passes. You think I can’t see that? Of course I can see that.”

“But -”

“I mean, let’s face it, Sam, you got lucky that I was even in town. If that detective… Victor Henrik-guy... hadn’t been snooping, I’d never have come to your little backwater at all. Count our blessings a little here, can we? I’m trying to _help,_ Sammy.”

“So…?” Sam pressed. He was still wearing one of Dean’s t-shirts - this one was plain black, with a frayed sleeve on the right-hand side.

“ _So,_ I can’t move this along any faster. Gas Ton is a big, big company, Sam. It takes a while for things to filter through the system and I can’t just demand funds, as the CEO, without doing a lot of paperwork. All my money is tied up in the business.” He held up a hand, forestalling Sam’s reply. “It’ll be another couple of days, at the most. You’ll have the full works - everything you need to go in there and save Dean.”

Sam’s throat closed at the sound of his brother’s name.

“OK?” Light pushed.

Sam nodded, without a word.


	21. Chapter 21

“Truth,” Dean said. He ran his hand through the snow on the parapet of the bridge; he and Castiel were taking a walk through the gardens, to see whether anything could be done with the time-ravaged topiary and the wild, untamed borders of hardy perennial plants.

Dean was wearing his leather coat again; to Charlie’s chagrin, he had turned down the offer of a cape. Castiel, beside him, was standing at perhaps eight feet tall. He paced in time with Dean.

**We always choose truth.**

“Dares are scarier,” Dean said. “You might make me… jump in this ornamental river, or something.”

**It is a pond.**

“It has a bridge,” Dean said. “It’s a river.”

**It doesn’t flow. It is a pond.**

“It’s stupid,” Dean said, and Castiel smiled. “Go on, ask me something.”

**Very well. I have heard you say to Charlie in the past that you are bisexual -**

“Cas,” Dean said. “We’ve  _ talked _ about this.  _ Personal space _ . No eavesdropping.”

**It was on your first night here,** Castiel protested. Dean waved him on, feigning some leftover irritation; Castiel continued.  **What is bisexual, and why do you think you are… that?**

Dean looked at Castiel carefully. The shadow of his face was smooth and earnest; his eyes as intense as ever.

“Well,” Dean said. “Bisexual is what I call myself, because I don’t only like girls or guys. I like… you know, I like anything. Whatever.”

**Like?**

“Feel attracted to,” Dean said gruffly. He looked out over the park. It shone in bright sunlight, the glint off the snow almost painful.

**Ah,** said Castiel.  **Yes. I understand.**

“You do?”

**I begin to. It is my turn; ask me the question.**

Dean said, “Truth or Dare?”

They walked on through the gardens; Dean shook out a hedge, freeing it of snow that he could see the state of it beneath. To his surprise, it looked healthy and strong, its boughs made thick and sturdy through having to hold up the cold snow; its leaves were dark green, rich and thriving. They played on in the game, trading little truths: favourite word, a happy memory, favourite colour.

_ Avalanche,  _ Dean committed to memory.  _ The time he showed me the garden room. Green. _

At last, they circled back round to the front door - and Dean asked the question once more, and Castiel said,

**Dare.**

He met Dean’s eyes, forestalling any words of surprise with a bold stare. Dean looked back, his mind a brief fog; there were too many options, too many things he could ask for, too many possibilities.

“You really want to choose dare?” he said. Castiel only nodded, turning to face Dean front-on, watching him wordlessly. They stood opposite each other outside the door into castle, at the top of the glassy steps.

Dean’s mind began to grind into action. He could be specific; he could say  _ I dare you to tell me why I’m here.  _ But he could have demanded that as a truth, long ago, and hadn’t; it had seemed as though it would break the game, because Castiel would refuse to say - and then their fun would be ended.

So, he needed something more vague. Something that let Castiel make his own decisions, but still opened up the door for him to finally be honest and open about one of the few things they hadn’t touched on - one of the few things that Dean  _ needed  _ to know.

“I dare you,” Dean said quietly - Castiel had waited with silent patience - “to tell me something you’re afraid to tell me.”

Castiel went utterly still. Dean didn’t retract what he’d said, or look away. Their gazes were locked, and Dean could feel his heart speeding up at the pure intensity of it - neither of them blinked, neither of them flinched. Dean wondered when he’d become brave; when he’d learned to be looked at like this without shame, and when he’d learned to look back without fear.

**There is not much that I am afraid to tell you,** Castiel said.  **Only one thing.**

“What’s that?” Dean said, his hands clenched into fists. Castiel’s face twisted wryly.

**Everything,** he said.  **Walk with me.**

They descended the steps at the same time, though Dean felt a divide between them as he tried to understand what Castiel had said. Everything? Was he about to finally be told how Castiel had come to be in this place, and why the ghosts were trapped here too after their deaths in that park? Was he going to finally understand why  _ he  _ was here?

Castiel walked with him through hedges, leading him through what felt like an elaborate labyrinth in a direction that they hadn’t been, before, on their wanderings. They went in silence, close in their bodies but separate in spirit. At last, Castiel came to a halt at the edge of a clearing, circular, ringed in tall hedges, with only two gaps - the one that Dean and Castiel had walked through, and a wider one directly opposite.

At the very centre, there was a tree.

Dean only glanced at it quickly before looking back to Castiel - and then something in his mind felt hooked, and he turned back.

The tree was tall - twenty feet at least, Dean guessed, eyeing it. And its branches were covered in snow, as was everything around them; its leaves were each carrying a coat of sparkling white. Dripping from its low, tempting boughs, red and shining, there were apples.

“Apple,” Dean said, realisation dawning. “Sam stole an apple.”

Castiel stood silently. 

Dean couldn’t take his eyes off the nearest fruit. It was so red, so beautiful. Dean wanted to touch it - only to touch it, he reasoned. He wouldn’t snap it off the tree by the stem. And yet, he thought, wouldn’t it fit well into the palm of my hand…

But he wouldn’t eat it. No matter how delicious it looked.

Only it would probably taste sweet, with a sour note at the end to make the tongue crave another bite - and Dean’s feet were carrying him forward of their own accord, until Castiel laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.

**Look At Me,** the angel said - and drawn out of his little daze by the inexorably authoritative note in Castiel’s voice, Dean tore his eyes away from the tree. Still it lingered in his mind, like a tidemark of promise that wouldn’t be immediately washed away. It felt like uncontaminated danger, and possibility, and loss - complicated, overpowering, terrifying.

“What is that thing?” Dean muttered to Castiel, looking up into his face. He tried not to look too-wide-eyed, too full of fear - but the tree had shaken him.

**That is the Tree,** Castiel said.  **Whose Fruit was the Downfall of Your Kind.**

“My - my kind?” Castiel’s hand was still on Dean’s shoulder; at the stumble in his voice, the angel’s face softened, and when he spoke again it was less cold and distant.

**It is the Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil,** he said. 

Dean stared.

“As in - Adam and Eve?”  _ Not Adam and Steve,  _ supplied Dean’s brain, uselessly, irrelevantly. He pushed that aside, ridiculous in its little humour. “Like - they ate one of these apples?”

**Yes. I remember it.**

“You…” Dean was aghast. “You’re  _ old. _ ”

Castiel considered this.

**Yes,** he said,  **and no. I am not so old as some of my brothers.**

“Brothers…” Dean said. Castiel raised a shoulder.

**I call them brothers. We are related only in the sense that -** **_Do Not Look At The Tree._ **

Dean jumped, and turned his face away. He let Castiel’s hand on his shoulder steady him, tether him.

“Why is this here?” Dean said weakly. “In Kansas? Why is this - I thought there was supposed to be a garden where it stayed - didn’t it stay in, uh, Eden? Why isn’t it… there?”

Castiel’s face darkened.

**My brother,** he said.  **Lucifer. The Lightbringer. He wanted the Tree for himself. It was moved, many times, to protect it from him. To try to hide it from him.**

“Lucifer,” Dean said weakly. “Like, the Devil. Six-six-six, hellfire, demons.”

**Yes.**

“And he wanted the tree, because…?”

**It has incredible power. With it, he could wipe out humanity in the way that he’s wanted for centuries. Millenia.**

“But - humans already ate the apple,” Dean said. “Doesn’t that mean it’s over? Like… the worst has happened? Why would - would Lucifer…” He stumbled over the name; it felt simultaneously grand and stupid in his mouth - magnificent in its meaning, and foolish on the lips of a little unimportant human.

Castiel’s smile was dry and humourless.

**You think you know everything there is to know,** he said,  **about good and evil? Adam and Eve took one bite each, Dean. You Know Nothing Of Good And Evil.**

Dean stared at him, feeling his heart sinking into his shoes. There was - there was more? More that he could know, through eating that apple? Its little siren call in his head sang all the sweeter; and when he pushed it away, it was with more strength of revulsion.

“I didn’t know there was - more,” Dean said. His voice sounded small; Castiel inclined his head.

**It is why humans cannot stand to share their bodies with angels, as vessels. Not for long. The knowledge tears their brain apart. They do not have the - the chemistry to understand it. Your hormones, your synapses… they are not built for it.** Castiel shook his head. **It is like forcing a blind person to read. The eyes will bleed.**

Dean backed away, and Castiel’s hand fell from his shoulder. Horror and bile were rising within him.

“Angels can share bodies with humans?”

**With consent. Only ever with consent.**

“Still… God.” Dean put his hand to his mouth, trying to steady himself. Castiel waited, silent.

The Tree was in the corner of Dean’s eye. He ignored it as best he could.

“So… if Lucifer wants it… how come he doesn’t have it? I thought he was, like - you know - the Devil? He kind of gets what he wants?”

**He almost did get it. Many times. Most recently, it was hidden in a park in a city, not far from here. Warded and protected. But Lucifer found it, and -**

“And you were sent to protect it,” Dean filled in for him, the story linking up - the park. The ghosts. Their deaths. “But you didn’t. You tried to save the people in the park.”

**I was not sent alone,** Castiel said.  **The tree was protected by my brother, Uriel. He fought well and Lucifer failed to obtain the Tree. I was punished for my insubordination by being assigned to permanently protect it, here, in this place that is warded against all entry.**

“So… that’s it? That’s why you’re here - to protect the Tree? And the ghosts, they stay because -”

Castiel looked startled.  **Because they want to be alive. Or the closest to it that they can be.**

“Right,” Dean said. “Of course.” In his head, a memory: Kevin saying softly and sadly,  _ Castiel saved us. He shouldn’t be alone.  _ He wondered if Castiel knew the real reason that the ghosts stayed close to him.

**The only problem is,** Castiel said,  **Lucifer knows that I am here. He attempted to gain access, many years ago. I tried to send a message to my brother and sisters in Heaven, but no help arrived. He failed... but he has been searching for a new way in ever since. He has not found one, up until now. The wardings have kept everyone out. But then…**

“Then Sam,” Dean said, the clouds starting to shift in his mind; he understood. “And then…”

**You. Yes. I imprisoned your brother because I didn’t know if he had Lucifer inside him, or if he was working for Lucifer. Then you arrived, and you demanded to take his place.**

“And you just… went with it?” Dean said. “Why?”

**You were so desperate.**

Dean stared at him. “You endangered the fate of the whole human race because I looked desperate?”

Castiel said nothing. He looked away.

“You’re a stupid bastard,” Dean said. “You - you’re stupid. You let Sam go - when he knows where the Tree is? What if he really had been Lucifer’s vessel?”

**He was not. I checked.**

Dean shook his head.

“And now you’re keeping me here, because… ?”

Castiel turned his face back towards Dean, to look at him.

**You…** he began, and then seemed to change tack.  **Because Sam can come and go through the wardings on this place, and you can, too. You wanted your brother to leave, and I needed to understand how it was possible for either of you to break through Heaven’s protection. It would take a being of immense power to get you inside. I have to be sure it is not Lucifer.**

“Well,” said Dean, “I haven’t been having drinks with Satan in the evenings lately, if that’s what you’re asking. He didn’t pay for my entry ticket to Gloomsville.”

**Would you know? If you saw the Devil walking, would you know him?**

Dean was quiet.

“I might,” he said.

Castiel shook his head.

**He is too canny. There is a mystery surrounding you that I cannot understand, and I will never solve it if you leave. So you have to stay.**

Dean let out a breath.

“So… I’m still trapped here?”

Castiel watched him, looking uncomfortable.

**Things are as they always were,** he said. Dean nodded. He understood, at least, now. Castiel wasn’t keeping him shut away for no reason, just to be cruel or for his own amusement - no, there was a rationale behind his decision that Dean could follow. It  _ was  _ disturbing that he and Sam had managed to make it through to Angel’s Hollow, when so many - when the Devil  _ himself  _ had failed.

Dean understood - but he didn’t have to like it, though. He was still just a person, forced to be in a certain place; in amidst angels and ghosts and good and evil, he was just a guy who missed his brother. He didn’t have to forget that.

“Thank you for telling me,” Dean said. “It helps.”

Castiel bowed his head.

**If you feel the Tree call to you,** he said,  **do not answer. Tell me; I can ease it.**

Dean nodded mutely. The Tree was not tempting to him beyond the power of its magic; in himself, he had no desire to gain ancient knowledge of good and evil. He hoped this would protect him from the worst of the Tree’s calling.

When they walked back up into the castle, they did so together.


	22. Chapter 22

**I did not apologise,** Castiel said.  **For frightening you, before.**

“Frightening me?” Dean said. He pulled a face of scepticism, and picked another pancake up from the stack that Mrs Tran had set out on top of the dining-room table, for breakfast. “I wasn’t scared.”

**Hmmmmm.**

“Hmmmmm?”

**You screamed and ran,** Castiel pointed out, with  _ almost _ no tone of amusement in his voice. He was eating at the same time as Dean, though he folded his pancakes into neat pockets before devouring them whole, rather than bothering to cut them up.

Dean didn't mind. He'd once fitted twenty cocktail sausages into his mouth at a party, and it hadn't even been for a dare. He wasn't one to judge how people ate.

**So,** Castiel went on,  **I thought perhaps...**

“Screamed?” Dean interrupted. “It was a deep and very understandable… yelling sound.” He dolloped whipped cream and chocolate sauce onto the pancake in front of him. “And if this is an apology now, it’s not going great.”

**I want to make it up to you,** Castiel said, as Dean sliced off a section of pancake doused in cream and shoved it into his mouth. It melted over his tongue.

“This pancake is doing all the work for you,” Dean said, with his mouth full. “God, this is good. What does she put in them? Is that coconut?”

Castiel tilted his head impatiently, and Dean tried to pay more attention. The plate of pancakes - however temptingly delicious - would not be a one-off.

“Right,” he said, wiping at the corners of his mouth to delicately remove the cream there. “Sorry. Making it up to me. Let me have it.”

Castiel reached over, and smeared away a huge blob of cream on Dean’s chin with the side of one hand. The movement was unexpected, but not unwelcome; Dean felt a little rush at the touch, and no urge to recoil. He reached up, and put a couple of his own fingertips to the place where Castiel’s strange, angelic skin had brushed his own.

For a moment, they simply stared at each other. Dean wondered if the gesture had taken Castiel by surprise, too -  he seemed just as wrong-footed as Dean did.

“Uh,” Dean said, intelligently.

**Well. If - yes.**

Dean put the rest of his pancake in his mouth, to cover his awkwardness.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmm,” he said loudly. He chewed with his head down, to hide the fact that his face was turning red. The little burst of warmth in his chest when Castiel had touched him - what had that been? It had felt almost like a swoop of excitement, but that… that couldn’t be right, that was - that was what people felt when they were - well, getting attached to someone. And Castiel, as… nice… as he was…

No, Dean corrected himself, Castiel wasn’t really all that nice. He was good, and he was kind, but he was grumpy and he didn’t explain himself until far too late. Both of those were very good reasons for Dean  _ not  _ to feel a welling of feeling when they touched; neither of the reasons seemed to be good enough. It had happened - undeniably.

Dean ate his pancake assiduously, and decided to do his best to deny it. The coconut in the pancake batter really was good, and was almost enough to distract him completely.

Eventually, Castiel cleared his throat.

**When you are ready, follow me,** he said, and stood - regaining his haughty elegance, somewhat. He was awkward, and it made Dean smile, even through his own embarrassment.

And Dean did follow him. Up those endless stairs, the interminable corridors - all the way back up to the West Wing. They walked in a strange kind of silence: a silence that spoke. The way they aligned their bodies as they moved; the way they took the steps at the same pace; the way they occasionally caught each other's eyes, and smiled - it was all part of a language that Dean was learning to speak.

He was surprised to find that he was already almost fluent, without trying. It was effortless; he had only to be himself.

Once through the door to the West Wing, Castiel motioned for Dean to stand still and then swept around to face him.

“What’s this?” Dean said, caught now between curiosity and unease. He glanced around the room for a clue. “Are you gonna throw books at me, or something?”

**No.** Castiel seemed to take the strange suggestion in stride, moving on quickly. His tone was a little formal, as though he were reciting a prepared speech.  **Whilst in the castle, I lack many of my usual powers. I cannot heal as fast as I normally would; I cannot fly so far; and my other abilities are limited. But they are usable, some of them.**

He met Dean’s eyes.

**I know you want to escape this place,** he said - and if there was a hint of complicated emotion in his voice, it was subtle enough that Dean stood no chance of understanding it.  **I can’t take you outside its bounds, but I can offer you a different way to escape.**

“... right. And this would be… ?” Dean said uncertainly.

**Your memory.** Castiel watched him intently.  **If you wish, I can send you into it. It will be as though you are dreaming, but it will feel more real - you will be able to walk around, look, smell, hear everything.**

Dean’s eyes widened. “You can do that?” When Castiel inclined his angelic head, Dean said simply, “Holy shit.”

His mind was immediately filtering through pictures in his head - memories that he could experience again. Things that he could see again **-** _ people  _ that he could see again.

**Only if you would like -**

“I do,” Dean said, too hastily. “I mean, I - yeah, I would. I’d like to try. Does, uh - does the memory have to be clear? Will it be all blurry or something if I pick one from ages ago?”

**No. Your memory will be like a door; we will walk through it, and all the details you have forgotten will be filled in. Everything will be perfectly clear.**

Dean nodded seriously, trying to look as though this made complete sense to him. “Is it dangerous? Could we get lost or something?”

Castiel tilted his head to one side.  **You are with me** , he said.  **You will be safe.**

Dean's chest squeezed; he did his best to ignore it.

“OK, uh. How do we - how does it work?”

Castiel raised a hand; his four wings spread wider, lifting out from his body. The shadow he cast became bolder, bigger. He looked suddenly a little fierce, and a lot older: an eldritch creature offering benevolent blessing.

**Touch,** he said.  **If you focus on the memory you would like to return to, I will do the rest.**

He began to advance on Dean - slowly, Dean noticed, giving him plenty of time to change his mind, if he was unsure.

Dean was not unsure. He chose his memory - a far-off, hazy thing.

“Will you be there?” Dean asked. “In the memory - will you be there, too?”

**I do not have to be. I can let you** **_-_ **

“It’s OK,” Dean said. The memory he’d chosen felt like a stone in the palm of his hand; he wasn’t sure if it was going to be smooth or sharp as flint to live again. “You can come.”  _ Please, come. _

**Then I will be there.**

The last few steps between Dean and Castiel were closed. The angel’s upraised hand hovered briefly beside Dean’s cheek; his skin sparked in anticipation of the touch. He met Castiel’s eyes - their gaze felt hot, intense, charged in a way that sent a shiver up Dean’s back - 

And then there was skin against skin, Castiel’s hand to Dean’s cheek, and his eyes were falling closed and he was tumbling downwards and the world was crumbling under his feet. He cried out as he pitched forwards, darkness consuming him -

**The memory, Dean. Hold on to the memory.**

Reaching for remembrance felt like struggling to catch a leaf in a high wind. Dean felt his teeth grit, his neck strain with the effort. He focused, concentrating all his efforts. And then his feet hit the floor, and he opened his eyes - and he was standing in a room that he knew.

A room that he had  _ once  _ known. 

It was so much smaller than he recalled it - and it felt even smaller still with Castiel standing beside him, his four wings filling the space and tinkling along the lines of pots and pans hanging from hooks on one side. The noise was low and spectral, though, like echoes from another reality where the pots and pans were moving; in the visible world, they remained still.

**Where are we?**

“Lawrence, Kansas,” Dean said softly. He looked out the window. The sun was setting, just like he remembered. And the kitchen was small, but it was beautiful; it had the mosaic tiles with the patterns on them that Dean remembered tracing with littler fingers, and a big old oven that rattled when it got too hot, and a scrubbed wooden kitchen table. There were two open doors at either end; one led through to the living room, and the other back to a narrow hallway.

**I like Kansas, but I prefer France.**

Dean looked over at him. “Sorry,” he said. “French memories are running just a little thin in my head right now. We’ll be back to your Rococo nightmare house soon.”

Castiel glared at him; Dean returned him a sunny smile. 

**Why are we in -**

A tiny figure went running past; Dean caught a glimpse of an ashy-blond head, and Batman pyjamas.

“Mom! Mom!” The child was yelling, half-laughing. “Come find me!”

“Where’s my little boy?” sing-songed another voice from upstairs. “Where’s my baby boy?”

There was the sound of footsteps, and the little boy who’d gone running past shrieked, and ran to hide.

Dean met Castiel’s eyes, half-shamefacedly. 

**This is you,** Castiel said, looking at the little boy who had run through an archway into the living room, and was trying to squeeze down between a sofa arm and a wall.  **And that…**

The footsteps - exaggeratedly loud and slow - finished their progress down the stairs, and began to pad their way towards the kitchen. Dean, standing beside Castiel, clenched his fists into rocks. He stood completely still. Part of him was ready for the dream to end - he’d had so many of them that had gone like this, and he always woke up just before she came into the kitchen -

And then a woman entered the room, and Dean grabbed Castiel’s arm.

She was short - shorter than Dean could have expected. That was the first thing that he noticed. And her long, blonde hair was almost the same shade as his own, back when he was small; it had darkened since. She had blue eyes and a smile and the softest, loveliest look to her that Dean had ever seen - and he knew that he was biased, but happiness truly seemed suspended around her like a glow, warm and inviting. Waiting to be shared.

“Where’s my Dean?” she said, and Dean would have crumbled to the ground if it hadn’t been for his hold on Castiel’s arm, which was steady and strong and bore his weight. “Where’s my lovely boy?”

“Nowhere!” squeaked a voice from the next room.

“Here,” Dean couldn’t help murmuring. His voice came out broken over the word, like glass shattering around a rock.

Mary walked right past him, into the living room.

“Mom -”

**She cannot hear you.**

Castiel's voice bore no pity, only gentle fact.

They watched Mary walk into the living room, obviously and quickly realize where her son was hiding, and pretend to look behind the television - a big, blocky old thing coated in dust. 

Dean had a tear in his throat that he couldn’t speak around.

**Are you alright? Do you want to stop?**

“No! No,” Dean forced out. “I just…”

He gestured, vague, not even knowing himself what he was trying to say. Castiel, however, seemed to understand. He nodded solemnly.

Together, they moved closer to the living room. Dean relaxed his hold on Castiel’s arm, and leaned on the doorframe, instead. Mary was fussing around, trying to disguise the fact that she knew full well that Dean was, quite clearly, behind the sofa - his hair was sticking out over the top of the arm. 

“Where is my little boy?” Mary huffed dramatically. “Oh, I miss him so much!”

In the doorway, Dean drew in a little breath of pain.

His younger self seemed to feel the same way; a small freckled face appeared from behind the cushions, looking distressed. “Mommy, I’m here! Don’t be sad!”

In the doorway, Dean felt a tear slide down his face, too sudden for him to be able to wipe it away with any subtlety. Mary, meanwhile, scooped her son up in her arms and hugged him tightly.

“There he is!” she said. “There’s my best boy.”

Castiel reached out, and gently took the older Dean’s hand. Dean was limp in his grip for a moment, and then squeezed back.

“Are you sad?” the little Dean was saying, his head still buried in Mary’s neck; she was holding him close to her chest, his legs wrapped round her like a monkey clinging to a tree. Dean watched her face break a little with love, and she hugged her son tighter.

“I’m so happy, silly,” she said, and kissed his head. Dean could remember that kiss - remember how it felt, firm and confident and reassuring. “I’m always so happy when I’m with you.”

Dean’s tears were falling freely, now. Mary was gently spinning in the middle of the living room, still hugging Dean close.

“Yesterday,” said little Dean, “I was just - I was walking just - on the playground lines? And then there was no more place to walk but Garth said I could do it different but -” 

The story emerged at pace, but ramblingly; Mary didn't interrupt once. With a twist in his gut, Dean remembered what it felt like - to have a mother, to have a solemn listener, to have someone always interested in what he had to say. Talking to plants and cars was one thing, Dean thought, but it never had matched up.

“Well,” Mary said, when Dean was finished, “well done you for being kind. You did great, honey.”

The younger Dean hugged Mary tighter. She looked so happy, so radiant.

“I love you, Mom,” Dean said, at the same time as his younger self said the words, too.

Mary smiled.

“I love you, too,” she said. “I always will.”

“Really?” Younger Dean said. “Forever’n’ever?”

“Forever’n’ever.”

“Even if I - even if I - what about when -” Little Dean’s face contorted in an effort to come up with a suitable situation. 

“It doesn’t matter where you go or what you do, my best boy. You’ll always be Dean Winchester, the boy with the proudest Mom in the world.”

She smoothed down his hair with one hand, and then gently lowered him down to the ground.

“More hugs!” Dean said, arms already up, asking to be lifted. Mary pressed the tip of a finger to the end of his nose.

“Ooh, I’m an old lady, honey,” she said, pretending to lean over with a crooked back. “I can’t do more than two minutes of hugging at a time. You’re getting so big and strong.” Little Dean struck a power-pose. “That’s right. Why don’t you go and play upstairs, and I’ll come find you later with more hugs.”

Dean grabbed her leg and hugged it instead, and then raced off upstairs; Castiel turned to watch him go, but Dean kept his eyes on his mother.

“Take care on the stairs, Dean!” she called up after him.

Dean, the man, took a step closer to her, bringing Castiel with him - hands still entwined.

Mary was still, her hands on her hips, watching after her son. Dean stayed out of her eyeline, even knowing that she could see through him.

He wanted to say something to her - something to finish things, to give him closure. That was to say, he'd heard a lot about closure and its value; he’d never really achieved it, or even truly understood how it was possible. Practically speaking, he only wanted to say something that would seal up the wound that still wept in his chest whenever he thought of his mother.

“Mom,” Dean said, and he sounded more like the little boy upstairs than the man he'd been for years, now. “I… I…”

His throat closed. He couldn't do it; it was too much, after all this time. Mary was still deep in thought, her eyes flicking around their little living room.

Castiel squeezed his hand.

**Dean. It's time.**

Dean was shaking. He nodded.

It was time to say goodbye.

“Mom,” he said, stronger this time. “I want to tell you that - that I think about you every day. But I don't let it just hurt. I try to do good with it. I try to make you proud.”

_ Dean Winchester, the boy with the proudest Mom in the world.  _

Dean took a deep breath, and released it.

“Sam grew up great,” he said. “He's gonna get out of town and be a big-shot in the city. We're both doing great, Mom. We just both - we both - we miss you.”

Mary blinked. Why was she standing so still, Dean wondered - it was almost as though she could hear, though that was impossible.

“We'll be OK. He'll be OK, and so will I, and - and this is it, Mom. I gotta go.”

Mary was still, her eyes wandering, as though trying to remember something - or trying to hear something that was just out of earshot.

Dean wanted to be hugged by her, to have her look at him - to have her see him, cup his face in her hands, speak to him. He wanted it in his chest and his shoulders and his hands, with an ache.

“I gotta go,” he said again. “I love you. I'm sorry…” 

He wasn't even sure why he was apologising - only that he'd felt the need to do it for years and years, and once the words rolled out his mouth it felt as though a weight was lifting off his shoulders.

“I'm sorry,” he said again. “Mom, I'm so sorry.” Once he'd started, he couldn't stop - and silent tears were rolling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, Mom -”

Mary frowned, and suddenly called up the stairs.

“Dean, is everything okay up there?”

Dean sucked in a breath, remembering how he'd answered.

“Everything's fine, Mom,” said the younger Dean upstairs, sounding chirpy.

“Are you sure?” Mary said.

“I'm fine,” both Deans said to her. “I promise.”

Mary's face relaxed. “I love you!” she called up, one last time. Dean tried to press the words over the ache in his heart like a band-aid.

“Yeah,” said the Dean who was upstairs, sounding absent and a little dismissive. “Love you too…”

“Love you too,” Dean downstairs said to her. He reached out a hand, even though he knew it was stupid, and it would pass through her like a ghost’s. “I love you, Mom...” He clenched his hand at the last moment, not wanting to only feel air where her soft hair should be. He had to say it - the thing he couldn’t say, before, when he’d been so small and her heart had failed her too young.

He took a deep breath, and let it go. He looked at her - his mother, his beautiful mother who had loved him so much and listened to him so carefully and held him so close. His mother, whom he missed every day. His  _ mom.  _ He looked at her, and he said it - said it at last.

“Goodbye,” he murmured.

And the memory ended, and in the castle Castiel took his hands away from Dean’s head, and they were back in the West Wing - back in the gloom. No mother, no happy glowing Mary in sight.

Dean knew that he should hold everything in. Castiel was still standing directly opposite him, watching; he shouldn’t have to deal with Dean’s feelings. If Dean could just get out of the room, he could find a nice corridor, a quiet one, and let it out -

**Your mother was a wonderful person,** Castiel said, and Dean crumbled.

He cried. He  _ cried.  _ His shoulders shook and he lost his balance and Castiel caught him, enfolded him, lowered him to the ground so that they knelt together. Just like that, Dean was in the angel’s arms, held close. He sobbed - brutal, ugly sounds - unable to think clearly, no chance of stopping himself or stemming the tide. He wept like a child, unrestrained.

“She was so… kind and… I didn't remember how she used to… hug me and… listen,” Dean managed.

**I know,** Castiel said.  **I know.** Dean covered his face with his hands.

Castiel let him cry himself dry. It was only when he was reaching the later stage of his tears, coughing and wiping at his cheeks, that the angel spoke again.

**I am sorry,** he said.  **I did not mean to upset you. I would never have offered, if -**

“Cas,” Dean said, still wiping at his cheeks. “Listen. That’s the best gift...  _ anyone  _ has ever given me.” And he meant it, too. It was better even than the garden room; it was a nail in him that had been released, letting the soft material of his soul fly loose and free. He could feel the change within himself.

**It is? But you…** Castiel leaned back, obviously unable to articulate exactly how terrible Dean looked after a long, hard cry - Dean’s first one in over twenty years.

“Ahh,” Dean said, wiping his face again. “Ugh. God. I don’t usually do… this. I’m sorry -”

**Do not apologise to me for showing emotions.**

Dean opened his mouth to argue - and then was distracted completely by the sight of Castiel’s eyes. Their usual blue-moon perfection was marred, blurred; looking closer, Dean realised that the angel’s eyes were  _ wet. _

“Are you…?” Dean said, and Castiel tilted his head, not understanding. Dean gave a little damp laugh. “I think I’m not the only one getting dumb and misty-eyed up in here.” 

Castiel frowned, and raised a hand to his own face; when he ran a finger along the underside of one eye, it came away with a shine of liquid on it.

Looking back up at Dean, Castiel looked less taken aback, and more resigned.

**You move me,** he said.

They sat together in silence for some time. The room felt big around them.

Eventually, Castiel said,

**Truth or Dare?**

Part of Dean wanted to curl up and never speak again - but he knew that he couldn’t let himself shut down, couldn’t fold in on himself like a card tower falling. He forced himself to focus, to be in present in the moment.  _ I’m in the West Wing. Castiel is here with me. _

“Truth,” Dean said.

Castiel considered.

**Do you enjoy… reading?** he said, eventually. Dean snorted, and wiped his cheeks again.

“Way to small talk, Cas.”

**Well…** Castiel looked abashed, and Dean waved his hands.

“No, it's good. Uh, yeah, I like reading fine. It's more Sam's thing. I like the classics, I like, uh - Vonnegut, you know him?”

**No. But I would like to.**

Dean nodded. The enormity of what he'd done was still washing through him, cleaning him through like a great wave. He could feel himself getting swept back by the tide of it -

**Truth or dare?** said Castiel.

Dean smiled slightly.

“Truth,” he said, because he felt like he'd already dared more than enough, today.

**Do you want to take up any new hobbies?**

“God, Cas, really?” Dean said, but gently.

**It is a good question,** said Castiel, with dignity.

“Sure,” Dean said. “Fine. OK. Hobbies. Uh, God. I don’t know.” He remembered the quip that he’d made to Crowley, back at the garage - what felt like years ago - and smiled. “Ballet.”

Castiel’s face creased.

**I don’t know about ballet,** he said.  **But there is a ballroom.**


	23. Chapter 23

Dean and Castiel surveyed the dusty room, the pair of them made small by the cavern of a space. They stood just inside the doorway; Dean had his hands on his hips. They were silent, side by side, considering.

**Admittedly, it could use a clean,** Castiel remarked.

“Just a once-over,” Dean said, experimentally pressing his foot into fresh, untouched dust, and leaving a deep bootprint. “With a few hundred gallons of disinfectant.”

The ballroom’s air was thick with neglect, but even still it retained a sense of elegance - like a forgotten bride still in her wedding gown, lace-like spiderwebs still veiling the chandeliers. Still beautiful, and waiting for the chance to shine. Dean frowned, and turned to Castiel.

“I think I saw some buckets in the kitchen,” he said. “And if not, there are the ones in the garden room. And some mops.”

Castiel stared at him.

**You want to… clean it?** he said.  **Ourselves?**

“Who else is gonna do it?” Dean said, bewildered - and watched Castiel’s face tilt sideways in acknowledgement of the point. “I mean… you don’t have to.” He raised his arms, showing off his muscles. “I’m a big boy, I can do it by myself.”

Castiel smiled - and then his smile widened, and the rest of him was growing too, his limbs lengthening and his torso thickening and his blue-moon eyes glowing wider. Dean took a single step back, his mouth falling open; he hadn’t realised how much Castiel had shrunk himself down, made himself less frightening, until he saw the fifteen-foot beast he’d first encountered in the castle.

The beast smiled.

**I also am a big boy,** he said.  **You won’t need to do this alone.**

Dean swallowed. His eyes kept getting caught on details - Castiel’s elongated hands, his thick arms, the slight shadowy flutter of his wings over those shoulders; all of it was wrapped in darkness and blurred by the touch of divinity, too much, as always, for Dean to fully understand. He took another step back.

**Dean?**

And then Dean’s gaze found Castiel’s eyes - and they were familiar: soft, concerned, and thoughtful. Just the sight of them put the breath back in Dean’s lungs. He retracted the step he’d taken back, and smiled weakly.

“Warn a guy next time you’re gonna Hulk out, OK?” he said lightly. Castiel tilted his head to one side, and Dean waved an arm vaguely to indicate Castiel’s body. “The thing you just did. You got bigger.”

**You didn’t like it?**

“I mean, it’s something I could get used to,” Dean said. “After all, I got used to the rest of you, didn’t I?” He grinned as Castiel’s eyes narrowed in what he recognised, now, as a mixture of confusion and indignation.

**The rest of me?**

“Well, that bad attitude, for one thing. The way you snore.”

**I don’t sleep,** Castiel said, with dignity.  **You are fabricating. I cannot snore. You, on the other hand...**

They began to make their way down towards the kitchens, bickering the entire way down - and then arguing some more as they gathered together buckets of water and mops, with Mrs Tran and Kevin watching with little smiles on their faces. The room smelled delicious.

“What’s that cooking?” Dean asked, heading over to the big stove; Mrs Tran flapped her hands at him, faking irritation.

“You can wait until dinner to find out,” she said, picking up a wooden spoon with a little frown of effort and stirring a pot. “If I let you any nearer, half of it will be gone in the time it takes me to blink.” Dean raised his hands, looking over at Castiel for support.

“Is it my fault that her cooking is so delicious?” he said, wounded. Castiel inclined his head gravely.

**No,** he said.  **But it is your fault that I don’t get to eat more of it, because you always take so much.**

Mrs Tran’s ghostly cheeks dimpled, even as Kevin laughed and Dean’s mouth fell open.

“It tastes like molecules to you, anyway!” he said.

They were still teasing each other as they made their way back up to the ballroom, cleaning supplies in hand. Dean put down the two buckets he’d brought up with him, a little of the water slopping over the rusted metal rims; Castiel carefully set down all eight buckets that he’d brought, with just a little too much delicate pointedness.

“Alright, alright, you’re the big strong angel,” Dean said, and sensed Castiel’s smile. He swung the mop that he’d carried awkwardly under one arm into his right hand, and splashed it into the nearest bucket.

“Ready to get started?” he said.

**Ready.**

Cleaning the room felt like a slow process, even with Castiel’s giant sweeps of the mop making long trenches in the coating of dust. Dean worked along beside him, keeping up wherever he could. Occasionally, they’d stop to flick water at each other, or have a brief conversation; they ended up doing mental mathematics together, fairly inevitably, Dean felt. It always helped, in these situations.

“Once we do that corner over there, we’ll have done half of a half.”

**A quarter. And if we do by the curtains next, that will be perhaps three-eighths of the second quarter.**

“And it only took us an hour and a half to do the first quarter, so we should be finished by about five -”

**Though we still need to find a way to do the chandeliers.**

“The chandeliers?”

**They’re covered in cobwebs. They need cleaning.**

“Aw, and I thought you were just building a spider sanctuary up there,” Dean said, and grinned back into Castiel’s narrow glare. “Maybe one of the ghosts can help? Ghosts can fly, right?”

**… I can fly.**

“Oh,” Dean said. “Right.” Castiel looked amused that he’d forgotten; Dean found that he was turning red, and concentrated hard on silently mopping for several minutes.

The light through the high, full-wall windows started bright, but gradually faded down to a soft amber as the sun began to lower in the sky. The floor was eventually cleared of all the dust - and then they shook out the curtains, and had to mop the floor around them again, shaking their heads at their own lack of foresight. When it came to cleaning the chandeliers, Castiel offered to lift Dean up with him so that they could both do it; Dean respectfully declined after pretending to think about it. Instead, he pushed open the door out onto the balcony beyond, so that some fresh air could pass through the room and get rid of the last of the musty scent that had curled up there, undisturbed, for years.

Outside, the chill pressed tight to Dean’s skin, raising goosebumps. He folded his arms, and drew the collar of his white shirt closer to his neck; after so long working, it was nice to feel a little shiver - something to distract from the ache of his muscles. The setting sun was sparkling off the snow, making it look rosy soft and almost warm. The waters of the pond even looked a little inviting in the pinkish glow.

**You are enjoying the view?**

“Yeah,” Dean said, over his shoulder. “It’s nice out here, come see.” When Castiel came to stand beside him, Dean turned to look at him - and then snorted.

**What?**

“Have a good time cleaning up the cobwebs, did we?” Dean said, and reached up to pull a great swath of them from the angel’s tall shoulders, and the tops of his wings. For the first time, his hand brushed against the feathers; he found himself going suddenly still, the shock of actual plumage against the backs of his fingers freezing him.

**Dean?**

With a jerk, Dean finished clearing off the cobwebs. He grinned, to cover the moment.

“Spider-chic was a good look for you,” he said. “You should try it again next time you want to impress someone.”

Castiel shook his head, exasperated, and looked out over the gardens. For a moment, the two of them were quiet as the sun set over them. Dean had the sudden urge to take Castiel’s hand; he suppressed it, rolling it into a fist instead.

“So… are you really gonna teach me how to dance?” he said. “Like, I still don’t believe that you’re actually any good at it yourself.”

**Charlie taught me,** Castiel said, with dignity.  **I told you. She was bored, and she insisted.**

“And Charlie learned it from…?”

“My ghostly ears are burning,” said a voice behind them, and Dean and Castiel both swung around to see Charlie floating towards them through the ballroom. “My God, you guys seriously did all this in one day?”

Dean raised both arms, and wiggled his eyebrows.

“That’s what happens when you get me on a job,” he said. “It gets done, and it gets done fast.”

Charlie looked at Dean, and she looked at the fifteen-foot tall angel beside him, and apparently decided not to make the obvious response. Instead, she said,

“So, where’s the music gonna come from?”

Dean was starting to shiver; he walked back inside, frowning back at Castiel over his shoulder.

“Did you think of that?” he said. “I mean, when you and Charlie were learning, you must’ve used something?”

“Nah,” Charlie answered, on Castiel's behalf.

“It’s  _ no _ , Kevin.”

Dean saw Castiel give both of them a blank look, walking with them inside as they laughed at the inside joke. Castiel closed the door behind them, just before Charlie reached it; she floated through it, unfazed.

“No, but really. We didn’t have music, did we?” Charlie said to Castiel, who shook his head.

**Charlie counted out loud,** he said gravely.  **It was very effective. She could do the same for us.**

“You need music,” Charlie said emphatically. She was looking a little thin and insubstantial today, Dean noticed; more so than usual, even considering that her tether was always upstairs in his room.

“Well, I don’t see any stereos lying around the place,” Dean said. He looked down, and noticed a bit of residual dust on the shining floor of the ballroom; with a smear of his boot, he dispersed it so that it wasn’t visible. Charlie, meanwhile, raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, no?”

Dean and Castiel both stared at her blankly, and she sighed.

“This is why I’m a Slytherin. Resourceful,” she said, tapping the side of her head. Dean and Castiel both shifted, indignant.

“I’m resourceful! I fix cars,” Dean protested.

“Makes you skilful, not resourceful,” Charlie said, and Dean gave a grunt of disagreement.

“But -”

**I ensured your continued existence by containing your essence within nearby resources following your death,** Castiel interrupted. Charlie and Dean both stared at him for a long moment, and then turned to each other.

“He has a point,” Dean said solemnly.

“I’ve got to begrudgingly admit it’s true,” Charlie replied. “There was  _ some  _ level of resourcefulness involved, there.”

Castiel nodded, with great dignity.

**Good,** he said.

“Doesn’t solve the music problem, though,” Charlie pointed out. “And I have the answer to that.” She pointed at Dean, who turned to look behind him - saw nothing - and then turned back to her.

“Listen,” he said, “if you’re suggesting that I sing, I’m in. I just think we need to send out a written warning to anyone within thirty miles who could possibly hear me and suffer hearing damage.”

Charlie snorted and shook her head. “No, idiot. Your  _ car.  _ You have a stereo in there, right?”

“Oh, yeah!” Dean turned to Castiel, his eyes widening. “And you can tune it in! Do you do things other than Blue Öyster Cult?”

Castiel stared.

**Blue** **Ö** **yster Cult? Why would someone worship a bivalve mollusc, and what about its colour makes it especially appealing?**

Dean waved his hands. “No, no, no - the band? You know, every time something to do with you is happening near my car, it starts randomly playing the Cult. Like when you fought the wolves in the woods… and when I was on my way here… and then back before that, in the garage, when you’d just taken Sam prisoner -” He broke off. Castiel clearly had no idea what he was talking about.

**I have no knowledge of this band. And I am not able to influence anything in such a way, outside the bounds of the castle. That was not me.**

Dean put his hands on his hips, and shook his head.

“Then - who…?”

“The important thing,” Charlie said, “is that we  _ do  _ have a means of getting some music in here. Let’s focus, guys.”

Dean pushed away the thought; Charlie was right. It was probably just that Castiel was doing it subconsciously, or else he had some kind of supernatural aura around him that just did all the work. Still, it was strange.

**I can magnify the sounds of the car stereo, if it is played in Dean’s car,** Castiel said.  **If we had some kind of funnel-shaped speaker… where is Kevin?**

Dean found himself taking a sideline as Charlie went and found Kevin, and together they began to discuss the mechanics of it; they seemed to be debating acoustics, and the possibility of making the music louder via playing it through some kind of metal tube. Dean had never been so aware that Kevin had been in Advanced Placement; meanwhile, of course, Dean himself had dropped out of school early. _Time to take a knee,_ he told himself He listened to them begin to talk out the logistical issues for several minutes - and then took himself over to the corner, where he sat down on a stool beside a big table that was covered over with an embroidered cloth.

Donna and Jody floated in, hearing all the talking; Donna joined in the discussion, and Dean heard her cite her second cousin’s degree in Mechanical Engineering as the basis of her expertise, and grinned. 

Jody, meanwhile, came over to him, and leaned up against the table.

“Alright, kid?” she said. Dean looked up at her, and wondered what to say.

_ I’ve stumbled into this land full of smart people, and they’re all either angels or ghosts, and somehow I fit in - and it’s confusing and it drives me crazy because this feels more normal and comfortable than living in the town out there, somehow. Except it can never really work, because my brother isn’t here and you’re all ghosts and Castiel is an angel and there’s a tree out there that could destroy the human race, and we’re arguing about music and I’m gonna learn how to dance, and I want to, but it’s just - it feels like insanity that this feels so far from insanity - _

“Are you, by any chance, overthinking this?” said Jody, and Dean realised he had been looking at her wide-eyed, trying to find an answer. He blinked, and looked down.

“I just… it’s been a lot, you know, and then there was the memory of my mom, and I’m just…” Dean didn’t talk about feelings; he didn’t have the vocabulary to explain the upwelling of emotions he was experiencing in the wake of dipping into his own past. Good feelings, yes - but overwhelming, intense feelings. And not only centred around his mother, but also around this place, this castle, with its gloomy corners and sudden, surprising rooms full of light and life; and around these people. Kevin, who was holding forth about ductile leads across the room; Donna, who was nodding like she had any idea what Kevin was talking about; Charlie, who probably understood far better, but was busy doing balletic spins across the shiny ballroom floor; Mrs Tran, who had just walked in with her hands on her hips, looking lightly cantankerous; Jody, beside him, dour and cynical and thoughtful. And Castiel, of course, above it all, his eyes deep and thoughtful, and his body angled towards Dean even though he was listening to Kevin speak with total concentration.

_ These people _ , Dean thought.  _ These people. I care about them. I  _ care  _ about them all. _

His radius of deeply-felt concern had never been expanded hugely far, beyond his own brother; the fact that it had managed to grow, without his knowledge or expectation, to include six more people - five of them already dead, one of them an eldritch creature of heaven - was terrifying. He  _ liked  _ these people. In fact, that didn’t do justice to it. He felt the deeper stirrings of a care that could be consuming, with time.

Jody snapped her fingers.

“Hey. Kid. You really are thinking too much.” She smirked down at him. “Just like those guys over there are doing.”

“Huh?” Dean said. Jody’s smile widened, and she tapped her hand lightly on the surface of the table.

“Sometimes,” she said, “you just have to stop trying to use your brain, and start using your eyes instead.”

Dean frowned. He looked again at the table, with its covering; Castiel had got the worst of the dust off the material just by blowing it away with one breath from his great lungs. The design was simple, roses interlaced.

He lifted up the cloth, just enough to see what was underneath - and then let it fall, looking at Jody with a little smile of mingled ruefulness and wonder, sharing a joke. She winked at him, and then moved away.

“Guys,” Dean said, getting up. “Guys.”

“No. You would need to  _ direct  _ the sound,” Kevin said. “Otherwise it won’t be -”

“My second cousin always said, aluminium is the best for everything.”

“Guys -” Dean tried again.

“Donna, your cousin didn’t work in acoustics!”

“He worked in  _ engineering.  _ He knew how to  _ engineer. _ ”

“Guys!”

**Yes, Dean?** said Castiel, at his deepest and most commanding. The ghosts fell immediately still.

Dean cleared his throat.

“Uh,” he said. “Does anyone know how to play the piano?”

There was a silent beat, and then Kevin raised his hand.

“Advanced level,” he said.

“Right,” said Dean. “Of course.” He swung a hand out to indicate the ‘table’ that had been lurking under its covering throughout their discussion. “It’s just… you know. Might be a bit easier than… the car.”

He threw a look at Charlie, who seemed to suffer a moment of consternation before offering him a salute.

“Resourceful,” she admitted. “I see it.”


	24. Chapter 24

“So,” Charlie said, heading upstairs with Dean, back towards his bedroom. “You’ve got music. You’ve got a ballroom. You’ve got a partner.” She said the last one innocently enough, but Dean still sent her a sharp look, which she studiously avoided by flitting a few feet ahead and then spinning in a circle. “You know what you need now?”

“A bath,” Dean said flatly. Charlie deflated a little.

“Well,” she said, “yes.”

Dean had bathed at the castle several times - not every day, because the castle had no running water and the effort of running buckets up and down the stairs seemed like too much to ask of himself, sometimes, after a hard day’s work in the garden room. Tonight, though, Dean wanted to make the effort; it seemed as though they were really  _ doing  _ this, and he wanted to do it right. There was a little sparkle of something special in the air; Dean wasn’t sure when it had started - but it was magical, and he didn’t want it to end. He wanted to keep being caught up in this excitement, this sensation of shared happiness.

And that meant  _ not  _ smelling like he’d just spent several hours cleaning out a dusty ballroom.

The process of creating his bath was long, but the ghosts helped - except Kevin, whom Dean could hear pattering away at the keyboard of the piano in the ballroom. It sounded disjointed, from what Dean could tell; he hoped that Kevin hadn’t forgotten how to play, but shrugged to himself. They could make it work.

Soaking in hot water, Dean tried to take stock of himself. It felt like something was slipping away from him - his control, or his inhibition, or  _ something.  _ He couldn’t quite put his finger on it; things seemed a lot more dangerous without it, but he also felt lighter, more free, as though he could do things and say things and  _ be  _ things that he had never been before. Here, in this place, where no one judged him - where he, Dean, being only himself and not making an effort to be good or quiet or appealing - he could be the person he wanted to be.

He  _ liked  _ himself, in this castle. He wasn’t strange, not weird - he wasn’t an oddball, like in his hometown; nor was he a nobody, like he’d be in the city. He was visible, but accepted. He was undoubtedly present, but he didn’t stick out; he was part of a whole. He  _ belonged.  _ And that was because of the ghosts, because he had fun with them, they were his friends - but it was also, he had to admit, because of Castiel.

Dean shifted in the water, the heavy scent of rose oil curling up around to enclose him along with the steam. The copper tub was high-backed and comfortable; Dean rested his head against the burnished metal, and closed his eyes. The soft candlelight of the bathroom faded to a warm orange behind his eyelids.

Castiel. The angel was the heart of this place. No longer was he the brutal, mindless beast in Dean’s eyes; he hadn’t been for quite some time. He was good - he felt  _ good _ in a way that Dean found hard to express to himself. Castiel was thoughtful, he was reasoned; he was grumpy, and he was intelligent, he was interesting in a way that was endless - or that Dean hadn’t found an end to, not yet. He was unaware of his own strength. Images flicked through Dean’s mind, memories from the past weeks; Castiel’s growing sense of humour, his honesty, his equal confusion and cynicism. His dryness, his touch of innocence. His ability to listen, his apparent interest in what Dean had to say. It was true that his shape - his physical body - was still a strangeness to Dean, something that came close to frightening him, even now; but his eyes, his essence, his true character - they were becoming familiar.

Safe. Castiel was safe.

And it was through Castiel’s kindness that the ghosts even existed, too; it was because of their love for him that they stayed in existence. He had saved them, and built up a castle around their tethers, made a home for them - a home they hadn’t chosen, yes, but where they had come to love each other, and Castiel. And that was the part that they  _ had  _ chosen - to become a family.

And where did that leave Dean? Because he, too, hadn’t chosen this castle; he, too, had been manipulated by events beyond his control into living here. And yet he, too, was finding himself not repelled by the place, but rather drawn to it.

_ Stockholm Syndrome,  _ said a little voice in his head. He’d read about it once. The captive gets attached to the captor, ends up trusting them, even liking them. Was that all this was - some kind of kink in his brain that could be explained away by psychologists? Was there something wrong with him, with what he was feeling?

He examined his feelings, floating loosely in the bathtub. The simple fact was, the way he felt about the castle, and the ghosts, and Castiel - it didn’t  _ feel  _ wrong, or manipulated into him. He understood why he was here; he understood about the Tree, about Lucifer. He knew that Castiel had let Sam go, out of kindness - and that to let him go, too, would be pushing kindness closer to madness. Dean didn’t like the fact that he had to stay, but it felt as though to blame Castiel would be to blame the gun for firing; the angel couldn’t help the fact that the Tree was in his garden, any more than Dean could. They were both at the mercy of circumstance, and Castiel’s task was to protect the Tree, protect the entire human race. There were more important things at stake than the total freedom of one man in Kansas; Dean couldn’t hate Castiel for that.

Besides, more than that, Castiel had saved his life; the angel had shed his own blood onto the snow in silver streaks and faced down those wolves with no fear, just to keep Dean alive.

_ Safe?  _ he’d asked Dean.  _ Safe?  _

And Dean had been safer than he knew.

But was that enough? Could this be enough, for him to be happy - forever? Because that was the deal, wasn’t it; that was the whole point. Dean wasn’t just here for another few weeks, or months, or even years. Dean was here - so far as any of them knew -  _ forever.  _ In the eyes of an angel, after all, the lifetime of a human was a blink. Lucifer’s plans, if Dean was somehow a part of them, could easily range beyond his sixty, sixty-five remaining years. It would never be safe for Castiel to let Dean go, unless Lucifer revealed himself and was defeated - and that meant there was no end in sight to Dean’s time here.

But beyond the fact that he missed Sam - and  _ God,  _ but Dean missed Sam - did he  _ want  _ there to be an end in sight? Did he really want to leave the friends he had here... and leave Castiel, too? Did he want to go back to working overtime at the lonely garage for no pay and talking to his plants and enduring Crowley’s teasing? Did he want to go back to knowing that Sam was going to leave one day, and he would be utterly alone in his house and in his town - and in his own head?

He sat up in the water. He was thinking too much, Jody would say; he was getting all weighed down in possibilities and the past, when he should be thinking about right now - right here. About tonight, a night that he was going to spend with Castiel. A night when an angel was going to teach him to dance.

He pulled himself up out of the water, and towelled himself dry. His body was fit and glowing after weeks of exercise and good food.  _ Real  _ good food, Dean had to admit, not just fatty burgers and fries, but all the wide range of Mrs Tran’s incredible cooking. He felt more muscled, thicker in his arms after days carrying around heavy pots and buckets in the garden room, but also softer round his stomach for the benefit of being well cared for.

He shaved himself, using the straight razor that he’d found in a soft leather case inside a drawer under a gilded mirror; for once, he felt glad that his father had managed to teach Dean how to use one, in between the drink and work and long, unexplained stretches of time away from home. The hair came off smoothly, almost as neatly as though he’d done it with one of the cheap razors he used at home. He didn’t cut himself, his big, deft hands secure.

When he walked out of the bathroom and went back through to his bedroom, his preferred loose white shirt and the same pair of plain brown trousers back on, he found Charlie sitting cross-legged on his bed. She had a look on her face as though she wanted to say something; she opened her mouth, but seemed to think better of it, and closed it again.

Dean smiled.

“Hey, Charlie,” he said. “These clothes… how do I look?”

Charlie’s eyes went wide; it was with an obvious effort of restraint that she replied calmly,

“You look fine. Maybe a little… underdressed, though, to be learning to dance.”

“You think?” said Dean evenly. “Huh. Well. I guess I might be in need of a change of clothes.”

Charlie, who was maintaining a facade of calm while slowly floating higher and higher off the bedspread, nodded seriously.

“I don’t just want to grab the first thing I see, this time, though,” Dean said thoughtfully. “I want to sort of… you know…”

He met Charlie’s eyes, and they shared identical, bright-eyed grins.

“Montage,” they said together, and Charlie’s excitement was released; with a little spin in the air for joy, she was immediately flitting across the room, chattering non-stop, and throwing open the doors to her tether - the wardrobe.

“See, a lot of people think that the fanciest costumes were all for women at that time,” she said, beginning to rummage through the wardrobe’s contents. “Because that’s how it often works these days. Women get all the bright colours, and men mostly get neutral tones, you know? Shades that vary from beige to dull. Patterns that range from plaid to checked.” Dean cast a guilty thought back towards the clothes in his own wardrobe, at home. He wasn’t disproving her theory. “But back in the day, men’s clothes could be just as beautifully embellished and glittering as the women’s. I’m talking coats with silk linings, fine embroidered details on the hems and sleeves, stitches in shiny thread, the full works.”

She turned back around to him, her arms full of clothes; Dean could see several items that glittered. His misgivings only increased, but he was reminded why he was doing this when he looked at Charlie’s glowing, ghostly face.

“I’ll spare you the padding on the legs,” she said, impish. “The rest is fair game.”

And she wasn’t exaggerating. Dean was redressed from his underwear to his boots, several times over - the coats a rainbow of colours, the trousers soft against his skin, the boots pinching a little when Charlie picked out ones that didn’t quite fit. She refused to let him look in a mirror, promising that she could make the best decisions, and he could be surprised by the finished look. And so he cycled through the outfits. 

A dashing red coat with gold details, an open shirt and a pair of black boots. Charlie wrinkled her nose; no, too macho. “Makes you look like a greaseball,” she said.

A bright blue waistcoat over a tighter, darker-coloured shirt, embroidered with pink roses. This one received serious consideration, but eventually she shook her head. “It’s not right. The colours aren’t  _ you  _ enough.”

A green shirt, with a matching coat that had vines and flowers threaded beautifully across the back; Dean had high hopes for that one, but Charlie took it off him almost immediately. “Sure, it brings out your eyes,” she said, “but let’s face it, they bring themselves out. I want something surprising…”

All black, and Dean was the one to negate that as soon as he had it on. “I feel like an undertaker. Or a hit-man,” he said. Charlie accepted this. “You’ll look wonderful at your next funeral, though,” she said. “Maybe we should have one for me, just so you can look this good when you cry over my departed soul.”

All white; Charlie considered him in it, her face scrunched. “There’s something creepy about all white,” she said, and took it back. “Even if the needlework is frankly divine.”

The pile of rejected clothes grew bigger and bigger; Dean was starting to wonder how much space there could possibly be for more options inside that wardrobe, however hefty it seemed from the outside. Suddenly, though, Charlie went still.

“You OK?” Dean said, and Charlie turned to him, concealing something behind her back - a move that didn’t completely work, since she was translucent, but Dean respected the effort and didn’t look.

“Close your eyes,” she said. “This is it. I know it is.”

Dean wanted to argue, but Charlie’s eyes had a flash of the wolf-fighter in them again; he cleared his throat, and then closed his eyes.

Even knowing that she was only a ghost - that she barely had the strength to lift the clothes in her arms, let alone something dangerous enough to hurt him - Dean felt a moment of vulnerability.

“Charlie,” he said. “I don’t like -”

“It’s okay,” Charlie said. “Just for a few minutes? I swear this will be worth it.”

Dean dressed himself once more, but this time with his eyes closed - Charlie helping where he needed it, pulling his arms through the right holes and looping something around his neck, tying it to lie just under his throat. He pulled his boots on, almost toppling over when he couldn’t see to keep his balance; he buckled a belt with Charlie’s guidance.

The clothes felt good on his body, at least, he thought. Comfortable. He could move in them; they’d be fine for dancing - or the best approximation of it that he could manage, with no prior knowledge of how to do the steps.

“What do you think?” Dean said, eyes still closed. “Does it look like you thought it would?”

There was a moment of silence, and then Charlie said,

“Turn a little bit to the left. A little more… that’s good, like that. See for yourself, Dean.”

“I can open my eyes?”

“Open them.”

Dean blinked, his vision blurry for a few moments as he left the darkness behind his lids and reemerged into the gentle candlelight of his bedroom. Charlie was floating to his left, her expression complicated; she gestured impatiently ahead of Dean with one hand, and Dean followed her pointing hand towards the open door of the wardrobe, which had a mirror on the back.

His mouth fell open.

She had dressed him in gold. 

He was wearing a golden coat, over a soft ivory shirt; round his neck was a neatly-tied scarf shot through with brilliant, shining thread. The coat came to halfway down his thighs, flaring out just a little at the bottom; it had no special adornment, no detailed embroidery. Its simple, stunning colour spoke for itself, and Dean himself seemed touched by Midas when he wore it. His skin looked warm and rosy; his hair burnished; his eyes were brilliant and shining.

He looked like a king, Dean thought. A  _ king.  _ A very surprised king, right now, but nevertheless - the coat gave him something royal, perhaps in the cut of the collar sharpening his jawline, or tuck of the scarf raising his chin. He felt like he never had before; he felt  _ beautiful,  _ and handsome, and when he turned to Charlie she looked so proud, and so caring, and so happy.

“What do you think?” Charlie said. “Good?”

Dean sought for words. He turned back to his reflection, and resisted the urge to walk up to it, touch it, check that it wasn’t some kind of magical trick - a painting, maybe, and not of Dean himself. But when he put up his hands to adjust the way the coat sat on his chest, the figure in the glass copied him exactly. His rings flashed on his fingers, the cheap metal looking polished and enriched by the rest of his clothing.

“It’s good,” he managed, and tried for a face that was impressed, without looking completely overwhelmed. “You know, it’s OK.”

Charlie punched him in the arm - or tried to; her hand went through it. She was still grinning, her spectral eyes looking bright and a little shiny.

“Hey,” Dean said, “are you gonna cry on me?”

Charlie sniffed. “You wish, Winchester. So, what do you think? Are you ready to go down there and make a fool of yourself learning how to dance?”

Dean looked back at the mirror, and chewed his lip. He wished he knew anything about dance; he wished he could live up to the person he looked like in the glass. Castiel was going to be disappointed by his clumsiness, his slowness in picking up the steps - Dean knew it. And he didn’t  _ want  _ Castiel to be disappointed.

“Show me a couple of things,” Dean said, turning to Charlie, trying to sound casual. “Before we go down. Just a few things, so I’ve got any idea what I’m doing.”

Charlie tilted her head to one side, looking suddenly like Castiel; she must have picked the mannerism up from him, Dean thought, smiling inside at the thought.

“Nervous?” she said.

Dean scoffed. “Why would I be nervous?”

Charlie shrugged nonchalantly, and reached out to brush a speck of dust from Dean’s shoulder.

“Maybe you care what Castiel thinks of your dancing,” she said.

“That’s allowed,” Dean said, with a touch too much defensiveness. With a little nod of her head - one that was ever-so-slightly too knowing - Charlie accepted that this was, indeed, allowed.

“OK,” she said. “Stand next to me. Now, we’re going to go back on this leg.” She patted her right leg, and took a step back on it. Dean followed her lead, watching hard; she led him through the basic step, both turning a full circle together. Dean frowned his way through it - seemed simple enough, so long as he remembered which was the right leg to go back on.  _ Right  _ was the right leg to go back on; there, that wasn’t hard.

“There are other things you can add in,” Charlie said excitedly. “Like lifts, and spins, and whisks. Let Castiel guide you; he knows the steps. My favourite are the spins…” Her eyes were bright.

“How did you even practise that?” Dean asked, adjusting his tie - self-conscious in his shining gold. “I mean - could he hold you, like a partner, even though you’re a ghost? How does the hold even go?”

Charlie instructed him in how to raise his arms, how to arch his back; far smaller than him, she floated a foot and a half off the ground to be able to assume the position of lead. Dean couldn’t feel her touch on his arms, but he could follow her voice; when Charlie said, “Back a little more arched - good, now take a step back on that right leg…”, he could follow her guidance and waltz them, albeit a little clumsily, around the room.

“Now spin,” Charlie said. “Keep your eyes on a specific point in the room, and spin - spin - spin!” They went faster and faster, and Charlie was laughing and Dean was laughing with her - and then, dizzy, he collapsed onto the bed. Accidentally, his arm went right through her chest as he fell.

When he looked up, she had a hand pressed to the place - directly over where her heart would have been.

“Sorry,” Dean said quickly, not understanding exactly what he’d done - but knowing he’d somehow punctured the atmosphere. He sat up, the world still revolving a little.

Charlie slowly sank down, so that her ghostly feet rested on the floor once more.

“It’s OK,” she said. “It’s fine.”

She came to sit down on the bed. Dean watched her, nerves returning in the face of her sudden mood change.

“You OK?” he ventured. “Really?”

Charlie looked at him, her eyes shining again - and this time, she didn’t seem to be trying to hide it.

“Just enjoy tonight,” she said. “OK? Just… enjoy it so much. Being able to dance, and hold someone you care about, and feel it all.”

Dean’s shoulders dropped. Charlie looked small, and saddened, and he wished more than anything that he could put a hand on her shoulder to comfort her.

“I will,” he said. “I swear. I’m sorry I made you sad. I… I swear I will.”

Charlie let out a sharp breath through her nose.

“Good,” she said, obviously trying to pull herself back together.

“Thank you for teaching me,” Dean said, giving her something else to talk about. Charlie quirked him a quick grin.

“Anytime,” she said. “It was fun.” She seemed to consider for a moment, and then added, “ _ You’re  _ fun.”

Dean looked at her sharply, taken aback.

“Me?”

Charlie nodded. “Ever since you came, the castle’s been so different. It’s like you woke us up. It’s like…” She trailed off, losing the rest of the sentence to inner thought. Dean watched her, waiting; eventually, he prompted,

“It’s like?”

Charlie shrugged.

“Castiel said something,” she said. “A few days ago. It’s why I chose these clothes for you, actually…”

Dean’s heart was beating suddenly hard in his chest; butterflies were rolling in his stomach.

“What did he say?” he asked.

“He said that you brought the sun with you, when you came.” She smiled at him, a small expression - but soft, and genuine. “I think he was right. Dean Winchester, our Sunlight King.”

Dean felt as though his chest was going to burst; he looked down at his hands, and turned one of his rings round on his finger to give himself something to do.

“You guys have done so much for me,” he said. “You, all the others. I can’t tell you, uh.” He cleared his throat, and tried to speak matter-of-factly. “I was so lonely. And with you guys, I feel like… I can just let that go.”

Charlie smiled, and it was bolder, this time - it was radiant.

“I’m glad I met you,” she said - and the simplicity of it, the warmth of her friendship, was too much; Dean could only nod in agreement. She punched his arm again, and he faked feeling it, rubbing his arm as though it hurt.

“Easy, tiger,” he said. She got up off the bed.

“Come on,” she said. “It’s time.” She held out an arm to him, offering to escort him out of the room; Dean paused only long enough to feel the butterflies in his stomach whirl, before taking it.

She was right; it was time.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you want an audio reference for what Kevin is playing in this chapter, check out [this!!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hxKP3q6l4lI)

Dean pushed open the door to the ballroom, and it swung smoothly. He stepped inside, light from the corridor glinting off the gold of his coat; his heart was in his throat, his hands were clenching and unclenching, by his sides. His eyes were wide; he looked around the empty, quiet space. It was in complete darkness. 

There was no sign of Kevin at the piano, no sign of Castiel. The candles in the chandeliers had not been lit. Dean swallowed hard. Maybe Castiel was busy, maybe he no longer wanted to do this -

At the very end of the room, there was a movement.

“Cas?” Dean said softly - knowing that Castiel would hear him, however quietly he spoke.

Rather than an answer, there was a sudden flicker of light - and then instantly, magnificently, and as one, the candles in the chandeliers blossomed into brilliance. Dean stood beneath them, a tiny figure in an infinite space, staring up open-mouthed; the golden lights looked like stars in a sky, and he felt as though he were floating in amongst them - almost close enough to touch.

**Dean?**

The voice came from across the room, pulling Dean’s attention away from the wonder of the lights. At the far end of the room, standing utterly still, was Castiel.

**Is that you?**

Dean held out his arms, as though for inspection.

“Do you like it?” he said.

Castiel’s wide, wide eyes could only seem to stare.

**Yes,** he said.  **Very much.**

And then, from behind them, the gentle tones of the piano began to play. Dean threw a glance over his shoulder, and saw Kevin sitting at the stool. His eyes were narrowed with the concentration needed to make the keys move under his fingertips; his tether - the little teacup - perched atop the flat, ornate surface of the piano’s body.

It was a song that Dean thought he knew - a song that he felt as though he’d heard before. Just the first few notes of it made his breath catch, at the sheer beauty.

When he looked back at Castiel, the angel was walking towards him. Dean, too, began to walk - and as he did, he felt himself smiling. Castiel’s eyes were on him; the music was soft and sweet, and it all felt so  _ right,  _ so perfect. When they reached each other at the centre of the room, their gazes met - and Dean saw it all there, all of it. Everything he felt in that moment, reflected back to him a thousand times over. Castiel looked so happy, so happy that it almost hurt to see, and yet Dean wouldn’t have even tried to look away.

**You…** the angel said, and shook his head.  **My words fail me. As does my attire.** He indicated his body, which was - as ever - wreathed in shadows, difficult to completely catch sight of with mortal eyes. Dean looked down, embarrassed.

“It’s OK,” he muttered, to the floor. “I just felt like… you know… looking a little special.”

The music played on, softly curling round them like a halo of light in itself. Castiel tilted his head to one side.

**I would also like to look special.** He smiled, ever so slightly.  **Tonight feels special.**

Dean nodded, his embarrassment fading. He was still nervous, yes, but this didn’t have to be frightening; this was just Castiel, and him, on a ballroom dance floor.

He considered tugging away the scarf he wore, and looping it around Castiel’s neck - but then a better idea occurred to him. He lifted a hand, and quickly pulled off one of his rings; he chose the one on his thumb that he had found, several years before, on the sidewalk outside a bar. He’d kept it, because that had been the night he’d got kicked out of the bar for ‘looking at a guy wrong’; it had felt as though the universe had been trying to redress the balance, a little, by sending him the trinket. 

It was a plain golden band, which he’d worn for so long that he had a tan line around it when he tugged it off and held it out.

“Here,” he said.

Castiel stared at him.

“To make you look special,” Dean explained. “It’s small, but maybe it’ll fit on your smallest finger.”

**A ring?** Castiel said.

Dean stopped to consider the implications for the first time -  _ all  _ of the implications. Then he said,

“Yeah. A ring.” He held it out, his expression bordering on defiant.

Castiel took it between a finger and thumb, holding it as delicately as if it were a rose bloom in his great hands. When Dean had first walked into the room, Castiel had been standing at around nine feet; now, he lessened himself down to just taller than Dean - perhaps seven feet - and slipped the ring onto the smallest of his narrowed fingers.

He held out his hand, palm away, inspecting how the band looked.

“It’s good,” Dean said, watching it sparkle. He wondered at the sensation of it - seeing his own ring on Castiel’s finger, giving something of his own away so freely with no expectation of any return, and feeling only lighter and better and happier for it.

**It is good,** Castiel agreed. He lowered his hand, and looked into Dean’s eyes.  **Thank You.**

Dean put his head on one side.

“Don’t use your angel voice on me,” he said gruffly, smiling. “So, are we going to do this, or what?”

**Do this?** Castiel said. He was normally so collected - at least to external appearances - but tonight he seemed as nervous as Dean felt, uncertain and excited and - hopeful.

The fact that Castiel, too, was nervous, eased the awkwardness stopping Dean from moving; he set down being flustered, and made it simple - like Jody would have said, as simple as looking instead of thinking, touching instead of wanting. He took one of Castiel’s hands, and put it on his waist; the other, he took in his own right hand. It felt strong in his grip.

“Ready?” Dean said. “You lead.”

**Me?**

“One… two… three…” Dean counted them in to the sound of Kevin's song, just as Charlie had shown him upstairs -

And then they were dancing.

At first, it was clumsy; Castiel’s awkwardness combined with Dean’s inexperience made for a few counts of crushed toes and misjudged steps. It was messy, but not uncomfortable; Dean snorted the first time Castiel accidentally stepped on him, and the angel smiled along with him as they fumbled their way through the start of the song -

And the music swelled, and Castiel seemed to remember how to dance. His back straightened, and his grip on Dean’s waist tightened, and he looked into Dean’s eyes and they dived into the next step - their joined hands like the prow of a ship that fell into the wave of melody. Their bodies were pressed together; they did not speak, anymore, having no need to, because all of their speech was being done with their touch. It was so easy to dance when Dean was being led; the ballroom and its glowing, golden lights curved past in the swooping circles they made, glowing and gorgeous. The gentlest press of Castiel’s hand guided him. Dean felt the music come alive within him; no longer was he outside it, trying to learn how to step along with it - he was a  _ part  _ of it, part of this old song. He belonged within its tender notes, its lilting tune, its forgiving and hopeful and welcoming rise and fall. And he belonged where he stood, in Castiel’s arms; he was carried away in the moment, and they were sailing on the music as though it were glittering water.

There was no space for thought, for consideration; everything was movement, every ounce of concentration was weighted against the next step, the next breath, the next upward swing of the music. Dean could feel the cool press of his own ring on Castiel’s finger; he could feel the bounce of the floor, built for dancing, under his boots; he could feel the solidity of Castiel’s form beside his own body, making him feel strong and safe and -

Castiel twirled him out, suddenly. Dean was spinning, only one hand still joining him to Castiel at all, and then he was being turned back into the embrace. And that was it, that was it - the pure beauty of being danced with sent Dean’s chest into explosions, and he knew, in that moment, that something irrevocable was happening between his head and his heart. Something that would not be ignored, after this; something that would last. The way he felt for Castiel - confused and strange as it was - rose up inside him with the music, and even as he spun and returned, and stepped and reverse-checked and spun again, he felt it grow stronger.

Dean hadn’t any words to explain what he felt - it wasn’t quite romance, it was deeper and stranger than any friendship he’d ever known. He reached for a word and found only a feeling, a desire to stay close. A desire to spend time here, in this place, doing nothing more than this: dancing, and somehow - strangely, bittersweetly, in the most unexpected way - falling in some kind of love.

The music had to end; songs always come to a close, Dean knew that. On the very last note, Castiel let go of Dean’s waist, and stepped back; their hands held tight, though, even as they bowed to each other.

The dying song faded, and all was still.

Dean and Castiel stood in the centre of the ballroom floor. Dean realised that he was breathing hard, the exertion of the dance only now making itself felt.

**Air?** Castiel suggested, and Dean nodded his agreement.

Hand in hand, they made their way to the door, and out onto the balcony. Dean found his matched his step to Castiel’s, without even trying.

Beyond, the night was quiet and cool; Dean felt the chilled air settling the frantic pounding of his heart, the catch in his lungs. Castiel led him over to parapet, where they leaned together and looked out. It felt so natural to have their hands intertwined that Dean didn’t even notice they still were, until he looked down and saw them resting together on the carved stone rail.

The sight of it made his heart leap once more.

“We should do that again some time,” Dean said lightly. Castiel nodded grave agreement. 

Dean wondered if Castiel felt it - if he had the same feeling. What if he didn’t? What if it was only Dean who had this pressure in his chest, this glorious champagne feeling in his blood; what if Castiel didn’t feel the same way?

He felt a moment’s swooping terror at the thought of caring this much for someone who did not care for him, too -

And then Castiel looked over at him, and the expression on his face laid to rest the momentary doubt. They were in this together; they had been almost from the start, matching each other every step of the way from mistrust to trust to liking, and now - into new territory, again.

Dean’s golden coat caught the light from the candles inside, and glowed softly.

“I’m glad I’m here,” Dean said suddenly, needing to vocalise it - just a little of what he was feeling. “Right now, I’m glad I’m here. With - with you.”

Castiel’s smile was sweet in its surprise.

**I, too, am glad,** he said.  **I did not think I would ever… dance, like this.**

Dean nodded. He understood.

He looked out over the gardens; the frosted hedges were as raggedy as ever, and above them, the night sky opened up. Dean felt as though the stars watched down on them, two little figures being quietly regarded by everything else that there was in the universe. The feeling within him, the feeling they shared, seemed worth watching.

“I wish someone had told me,” said Dean. Castiel turned to look at him; the feeling of being watched by him made Dean’s skin tingle.

**Told you?**

“That I was going to meet you. You know, I look back on myself, ten years ago - five years ago - whatever. I was so sure that I would never…” He swallowed. “Dance.”

Castiel accepted this with a nod, asking Dean to continue.

“I don’t know, I just - I felt alone. Lost. I thought so many things that aren’t true, I thought I was going to live out the rest of my life in a little hick town and never feel like I did anything much that was interesting.”

**No adventures,** Castiel said wryly.

“No adventures,” Dean agreed. He looked up at the stars. They seemed far away and cold, after the stellar warmth of the candles inside. “I don’t know. I guess I just wish I could go back and tell myself, you know, hey - I know it sucks, I know you’re not doing great. But you’re gonna have something happen to you, and right in the middle of it you’re gonna meet this bunch of people. And most of them are gonna be dead and one of them’s going to be an angel, and none of it’s gonna make any sense, but one night, you’re gonna…”

Dean looked over at Castiel.

**Dance,** he supplied, softly.

For a moment, they were content to only watch each other; Dean was trying to map Castiel’s face, even though it was beyond his power to completely see it, and he knew that. He wondered what Castiel thought of his own face, so ordinary and visible, and probably flushed with the cold.

**Are you happy here?** Castiel said - and like all his questions, he asked it as though it mattered.

And then he said,

**Don’t lie.**

Dean remembered that first conversation he’d had with Castiel.  _ I cannot lie,  _ he’d said. Never told a lie, never had his heart broken, and yet he’d lived for millennia.

Dean considered - and then, because he wanted Castiel to understand, he started to think aloud.

“I want to say yes. Because, like, I’ve never been in a place where I felt so much like I belonged, you know? With the ghosts, with you. It’s good and I like it. But…” He trailed off, and Castiel tilted his head, prompting for more. “It’s not so much just about being free,” Dean said, his voice smaller. “It’s about - you know, there’s my brother out there. I’m used to taking care of him, I’d see him every day.”

There was a moment of silence. A wind blew through the gardens, and the last breath of the breeze made its way up to them on the balcony in curlicues of air.

**You must miss him,** Castiel said, his voice somehow both remote and deeply weighted with concern; Dean ducked his head. For a moment, he allowed himself to truly feel the lance through his mind that was his worry for his brother; it was an ache that was so permanent - that had been with him, to varying degrees, for years now - that he was used to it, if not able to forget it.

“Yeah,” he managed to say aloud. “A lot.”

Castiel’s hand shifted in Dean’s, though he didn’t let go. Both lost in thought, they watched the night for some time; Dean lost himself in thoughts of his brother. It was pointless to worry about him; he was powerless to help Sam, a wood full of wolves stopping him from going anywhere. Castiel was just as helpless, bound by the borders of his castle kingdom, and unable to let Dean go without endangering the whole of humanity.

Pointless to worry, then - but impossible not to.

**Maybe…** Castiel said, and then stopped. Dean turned to look at him.

“Maybe?”

Castiel’s face was tight with thought.  **Come with me,** he said.

They left the balcony, hands swinging apart as they walked back inside, across the now-empty ballroom, and up the stairs. Dean sensed no anger from Castiel as they made their way through the castle; only a kind of deep thoughtfulness, a tension that he didn’t fully understand. The mood of momentousness, of magic, that had carried them away earlier had been punctured; inevitably so, Dean felt, and yet he couldn’t help but miss it already.

They arrived, and Castiel ushered Dean inside first: the West Wing. Together, they crossed the now-familiar space, heading for the balcony - Dean hadn’t returned there since the first night that he’d discovered it, and the rose, too.

It was still there, glowing in its glass case, when Castiel lifted the curtain aside. Dean barely spared it a glance; he still didn’t completely understand why Castiel had been so protective of it, that night, but there were more important things to think about - the reason that Castiel had brought him up here, being the first.

“Cas,” Dean said. He shivered; the cold was starting to seep into his bones, after so long standing out on the balcony of the ballroom, and now here, too. “What’s going on? Why are we here?”

Castiel turned solemn eyes onto him.

**It is possible that I may be able to let you hear your brother,** he said.

Dean frowned, his mind racing.

“Like… in the memory, again?” He took a step back. “Cas, thank you, but - I think it’d just make it -”

**No. Not in a memory.** Castiel’s expression was unreadable, detached; Dean felt a shiver go over his skin at the strangeness of this turn that the night had taken. Part of him wanted to wave goodnight, now, and deal with whatever this was in the light of day - but the promise of potentially hearing from his brother was too much to resist.

“Then…?”

**You know I have comparatively well-tuned hearing… when I concentrate, I can hear sounds from the town. If you would like, I could listen for your brother, and -** he raised a hand, ready to place on the side of Dean’s head, as before -  **show it to you.**

“You mean - I’ll be able to hear him?”

**Yes. If I can find him.**

“He’ll be at home,” Dean said eagerly. Now that the possibility of hearing his brother’s voice was on the table, he couldn’t contain how much he missed Sam so well; he felt a sudden, wild hope. “I’m sure he’ll be at home! Can you - if I show you where home is in my head, can you find it?”

Castiel nodded. Dean’s excitement, for once, seemed to be having no effect on him; he was impervious, his face blank.

“Is everything OK?” Dean asked, catching Castiel’s wrist before he could lay his palm to Dean’s cheek. “You seem… off. Do you not want to do this, does it hurt?”

**No,** Castiel said.  **No, it doesn’t hurt. I only…** He took in a breath, and released it.  **I have a feeling -**

He cut himself off.

“A feeling?” Dean pressed. Castiel shook his head.

**It’s not important,** he said.  **Let’s begin.**

He gently levered Dean’s fingers away from his wrist, and placed the flat of his hand to Dean’s head. For a moment, as before, there was only the simple sensation of touch - hand to head, and it was so much more complicated and significant than last time - and then there was the sensation of crumbling, and Dean’s eyes rolled closed.

**Your home,** said Castiel’s voice. Dean floated in darkness, a darkness that roared and shifted.  **Show me your home.**

Dean concentrated. His mind felt more full than last time, and the wind blowing through him was harsher, making it harder to pinpoint what he needed. He reached for the memories; driving home, which roads he’d take from the castle - through the woods, back down the slip road, then the main road, past the Walmart, turn left…

Voices started to reach him, fuzzy and muffled. Dean strained to hear them better, even as he guided Castiel all the way to his own home, picturing it as clearly as he could in his head. He thought he caught a snatch of his neighbours having an argument; then, the sound of a television reporter talking, giving an update on oil prices; and then, a voice that made him go rigid with recognition.

“There!” he wanted to say out loud, but felt Castiel’s free hand cover his mouth before he could do so; he realised, belatedly, that with Castiel listening this hard, his own voice would be too loud and too close and would distract him completely.

But there he was - Sam, Sam was talking! He was alive, then, at least. And he wasn’t alone, which was something else that had been on Dean’s mind - whether or not his brother was sitting by himself, getting lonely and feeling guilty and helpless. It seemed as though he didn’t have to worry about that.

Although…

Dean frowned. The tone of Sam’s voice was one that he knew; it was angry, but the kind of angry that meant he was covering up being frightened. It had been heard most often in Sam’s childhood when he’d had a bad dream, and was yelling the story of it to Dean in the middle of the night - or else when their father had come home drunk, and Sam had angrily told him to leave again until he was sober.

Now, Dean strained to pick out individual words in the furious stream that Sam was spilling. It was hard; there was interference from other nearby sounds, and Sam was talking quickly, but Dean managed to hear snatches.

_ “... should have told me what you were! I don’t… I trusted… now everything is…” _

There was the softer sound of another voice, one that Dean didn’t know; it sounded charming, soothing.

_ “... the only way?”  _ Sam said, and this time he sounded smaller, less of the anger and more of the fear evident in his tone. “ _... couldn’t… anything else? Or are you telling me… the only way to save Dean?” _

Dean’s heart wrenched. The second voice came again.

_ “Is is dangerous?”  _ Sam said, the single question coming through clearly. A murmur, in response.

_ “He was… die for me. I won’t…. if… the only way… save him… do it. I’ll… it. Yes.” _

Dean shoved back from Castiel, his hands rising to cover his ears - as though he could somehow unhear the voice that had just spoken. He lost his balance, and went sprawling backwards onto the floor, where he tried to regain his bearings; the room was spinning around him, his heart beating hard in a panic.

“Cas...” Dean said. The angel was looking down at Dean, and his eyes were wide with worry.

**Your brother… it sounds as though he is making a mistake,** he said.

“He’s going to do something stupid, just to come and get me. He’s in danger, how do I tell him - how do I let him know I’m OK? He needs to know -”

**You must go to him.**

The five words fell into silence like heavy dark ink into water, spreading slowly. Dean stared at Castiel, trying to find the words he needed.

“Go - go to him?” he said. “But - you said -”

**You should go to your brother.**

“But- the Tree - Lucifer - you said it could destroy -”

Castiel reached down and pulled Dean up to his feet by a single grasp on one shoulder, the gesture quick and impatient, his sudden strength dizzying.

**Do you think I would risk the welfare of your brother on the possibility that you could be connected to Lucifer? He needs you. You Should Go.**

His deep, angelic tones echoed, and Dean shuddered.

“You’re letting me go,” he said, blankly.

**Take your car. I will distract the wolves in the woods, as I did for your brother.**

“They’ll kill you -”

**They Will Not.** Castiel saw the expression on Dean’s face, and softened.  **It is easier to avoid injury when I am only running, and not fighting. You are wasting time, Dean, time your brother does not have. You heard him - speed is of the essence. You must go…**

Dean stared into Castiel’s eyes. He felt the pressure of time passing like a weight behind his eyes; he ached with the sudden and intense urgency of it.

“Cas - it’s not - I’ve got to, I can’t leave him -”

**I understand. Now, Go.**

Dean kept his eyes on the angel, and clenched his fists.

“Will you be -”

**I Will Be Fine.**

Dean could feel his face falling into ravaged lines.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

And he fled. Out the door, down the stairs, down the corridors - out, and out, and out.

As he threw open the door to the Impala, as he coughed her battered engine into life, as he drove away towards the wood and heard the swish of wings over him, and the dreadful roar of Castiel as he’d first heard it, he could only think - dully, and thickly - that when the night had started, Castiel had never lied, never had his heart broken.

And now, by scream of pain that sang to the wound in Dean’s chest as he drove away - too fast, too soon, too sudden - now, Castiel had done both. His heart was surely breaking - and,  _ I will be fine,  _ he’d said.


	26. Chapter 26

Dean drove like a man possessed, the miles falling away under his tyres. He knew he should go easy on the engine, with her cooling system down - but he couldn’t wait, not with Sam in danger, not with the wolves in the woods.

His chest ached. He thought of Castiel, and it hurt worse. He could never have expected the separation to cause him hurt - but here he was, in a car full of the roar of a broken engine, and he was the one who felt louder and more damaged inside.

He remembered that he hadn’t had a chance to say goodbye to Charlie, to Donna and Jody, to Mrs Tran and Kevin. What if he could never go back? What if Angel’s Hollow sealed itself again, and he could never get back in?

The ache inside him skewered when he remembered Castiel’s words.  _ I will be fine.  _ No, he thought, you won’t, and neither will I.

“Focus,” he said to himself, trying to pull his thoughts away. What would Jody say? Focus on what you can see. He could see the road; he could see the snow fading and altogether stopping, the woods thinning and the road hardening to solid tarmac under the wheels. He could see his road home, all the way to Sam. He could see -

Flames?

Dean squinted, and slowed down.

In the parking lot of their local Walmart, Dean could see a crowd gathered - and they were clustered in an unruly-looking, loud mob around something that was on fire. Dean craned his neck, trying to catch a glimpse of what it was before he made the left turn towards home, towards Sam. 

It looked like some kind of vehicle. Jesus, had they set alight to a car? Was it just vandalism? But there looked to be far too many people in the lot for it to just be delinquent kids; there weren’t that many kids put together in the whole town, and most of them wouldn’t even say boo to a goose, as Donna would say…

And then Dean caught sight of the registration plate on the burning car, and he was wrenching the wheel hard right into the parking lot, his vision suddenly slowing down, down, down. His tyres screeched as he came to a curving stop in the lot, several yards away from where the outside stragglers of the crowd were standing; they stared at him at Dean ripped open the Impala’s door and began to run across the lot, his feet smacking on the concrete.

“SAM!” he yelled, shoving people aside; they were all just gaping at the car, watching it burn, laughing with each other. “ _ SAM! _ ”

His vision was still too slow with panic, making everything feel choppy and unreal. He made it to the front of the crowd and threw his hand up over his face to cover himself from the heat. Trying to get closer, he felt his stomach turn; the car was already ablaze from the inside out. If there had been anyone in the silver company car when it had been torched, there was no chance they were still alive, now.

Dean dropped to his knees.

“Sam,” he said softly, his hands rising up to clasp behind his head. “Sam…”

“Dean? S’that you? What’s the matter, buddy?” Dean looked up, his hands falling back down to his sides, to see Garth peering down at him - his skin looking red and flickered with shadow in the light from the fire. “Everythin’ OK?”

“This is Sam’s car,” Dean said blankly. The question made no sense. How could anything be OK?

Garth peered at it. “Oh, sure,” he said. Then, “Uh… did you like it a lot?” He sounded dubious. “I think they make a lot more Hondas than Impalas. I reckon you could get another one for him.”

“For - for -” Dean said, and then followed the direction of Garth’s pointing finger; to one side of the car, his back turned, Dean saw a figure that he recognised with a lurch of his sickened stomach. 

He staggered to his feet, giving the flaming car a wide berth, and making for the man standing beside it with his back to the crowd - to Dean.

“Sam?” Dean said - and it came out cautiously, because in his head, barely audible over the sirens of panic and loss, there was a cautionary bell ringing. Something was wrong - the way Sam was standing, or his clothes, a white suit -

Sam turned, and greeted Dean with an expression that was completely and totally  _ wrong. _

Dean stared. Sam looked smooth, unruffled.

“Oh,” Sam said, a slight smile somehow managing to harden his features, rather than soften them. “Hello, Dean.”

The voice was wrong. The words were wrong. The eyes were wrong. Firelight flickered in them, but they were cold, cold, cold.

Dean looked into the eyes of his brother, and saw a stranger.

“I’m curious,” Sam said, still in that too-smooth voice. “Did Castiel let you go, or did you escape?”

Dean could only watch him, too horrified to speak, his jaw locked.

Sam shrugged.

“It doesn’t make a huge amount of difference, I suppose. I only wondered exactly how foolish my brother is, these days - whether he learned from last time.”

“Sam, wh- your -” Dean choked on the word. “Your -”

“Brother,” said Sam, calmly. “Yes.”

“Who - who are you?” Dean ground out. His stomach was roiling; he wanted to be sick. He wanted to wake up from the nightmare.

Sam smiled again, and it was colder than ice. Behind Dean, the crowd was sending raucous shouts amongst itself, seething and breathing like an animal.

“They call me Light,” said the creature inside Sam. “The Lightbringer. I have other names, too…”

Something cracked inside Dean’s head, and he managed to utter a single word.

“Lucifer,” he said. 

Sam’s features were pulled into an expression of polite surprise.

“Oh,” said Lucifer, “you’ve heard of me?”

Dean could barely stand to look at him.

“You - you’re - how did you…” He tried to unstick his throat. “What did you do to my brother?”

“Oh, Sam? He’s fine,” said Lucifer, brushing a speck of soot from his white, white suit. “In fact, he’s very comfortable, I must say. I’d like to wear him more often.”

_ Wear him.  _ The conversation that Dean had had with Castiel in the gardens of the castle, beside the Tree, came flooding back;  _ humans cannot stand to share their bodies with angels, as vessels - not for long… _

“No,” Dean said, shaking his head, trying to deny what was standing in front of his eyes. “No. You can’t do that. You’re an angel, too. You can’t make Sam your - your  _ vessel  _ without his -”

“Consent,” said Lucifer smoothly. “Of course not, Dean, you’re quite right. And I got his consent.”

Dean’s mouth fell open.

“There’s no way he would ever agree to -”

He cut himself off abruptly. The conversation he’d heard - the one that had made him come running in the first place - was suddenly being replayed in his memory. The barrage of realisations was shaking him to the core. 

That conversation had ended with Sam saying  _ yes. _

“It turns out,” said Lucifer, “that somehow you and your brother have free passes into that place they call Angel’s Hollow. I needed to get into one of your vessels, and Sam - well, Sam was so desperate to get you home safe, that it only took me a few weeks to bring him to the point of agreement.”

“You bastard,” Dean said, through clenched teeth. “You sick, sick -”

“Oh, I’m the one who’s sick?” Lucifer interrupted, just a hint of annoyance in his voice - a swift bite. “Look at you, standing there in those clothes that reek of my brother. Did you let him dress you up like a pretty doll while  _ your  _ brother was burning from the inside out with guilt out here?” He took a step closer - a knowing, piercing gaze in his eyes. “Tell me, Dean, how hard did you try to escape? Did you give it everything you have?”

Dean tried to meet his eyes, and couldn’t. He  _ had  _ tried - and yet a part of him had been so sure that Sam would at least be  _ safe  _ out here, that he had let the issue become complicated in his mind, when it should have been as simple as  _ escape, at all costs. _

Lucifer sneered at him.

“You’re all the same,” he said. “Naked apes, murderous, stupid. Selfish. Tell me, did Castiel manage to break my little curse with you?”

“Curse?” Dean said. He could sense the crowd behind him growing more and more restive. The air was thick with the scent of oil and burning rubber.

Lucifer looked quietly delighted.

“Oh, he didn’t tell you? How  _ noble.  _ How typical of my brother. Shall I spoil it all for him?” Lucifer reached into the pocket of his white suit, and drew out a single, red rose.

Dean stared at it - a perfect match for the one on Castiel’s balcony, in the West Wing.

“Dean,” said Lucifer, handing it to him with a wide-eyed, sorrowful look on his face. “Please. I know we haven’t been getting along, and there’s plenty of reason for you to hate me. But I know I’ve done wrong, and I want to make it right. That’s why I came here today. Won’t you take this rose, as a symbol of my goodwill?”

He held it out. Dean considered him; the flower was strangely tempting, it was true, but in the same way that the Tree was tempting - dangerously, stomach-turningly.

“The Hell do you think you’re fooling,” he growled. Lucifer smiled, and pulled back the rose.

“You’re smarter than my brother, at least,” he said. “Can you believe he fell for that one, when I turned up at the gate to Angel’s Hollow, last time?”

“You tricked him,” Dean said, his voice shaking. “Castiel?”

“He took the rose, and the curse became his,” Lucifer said. “If I couldn’t have the Tree, I at least wanted him to  _ suffer _ . Besides, with the nature of the curse - I thought it might spark off something interesting. Something I could use. Now, I don’t know how you or your brother managed to get into the Hollow - but since no one’s around to take the credit, I think I’ll just have it for myself.”

“What - what was the curse?” Dean said. “That you put on Cas?”

Lucifer opened his mouth to reply - and then seemed to stop, and consider him.

“Cas,” he said softly. “Cas, you called him? Hmm. No, I don’t think I’ll tell you, Dean Winchester. Wouldn’t want you to go breaking it, somehow, and messing up my plans. In fact… you’re a liability.” With sudden decisiveness, Lucifer clapped his hands; as one, the crowd around them, watching the car burn, all went silent.

They barely moved. Dean turned around to look, and saw Garth standing - rapt - too close to the flames.

“Crowley?” said Lucifer, and a figure stepped out of the shadow of the mob - a man wearing a dark coat and a five o’clock shadow. Dean’s mouth fell open. “Keep an eye on my  _ dear  _ brother Dean, won’t you? We wouldn’t want him getting into harm’s way.”

Crowley inclined his head.

“Very good, Sir,” he said.

“Do you have it - the gun?”

Crowley reached into the pocket of his coat. Dean couldn’t take his eyes off the crowd - eerily still, utterly transfixed by Lucifer’s every move.

Out of Crowley’s coat pocket came a gun - small, unimpressive-looking, Dean thought. He’d learned to shoot with bigger pistols than the one Lucifer was taking reverently in his hands, now. In  _ Sam’s  _ hands, Dean corrected himself. The mind was Lucifer, now, but the hands still belonged to Sam.

Lucifer looked to Dean, caught him staring at the gun in his hands, and smiled.

“Angel-killing bullets,” he said. “Aren’t we lucky to live in an age of such widespread technological advancement?”

“Angel-killing -” Dean said, and cut himself off, not even wanting to say the words.  _ No. He can’t kill Cas _ . “No. You can’t. Not -”

Lucifer took a quick step towards him, silencing the end of his sentence.

“I’m going to put a bullet in Castiel,” Lucifer said, his serenity - his closeness - utterly threatening. “And if that doesn’t work, I’m going to put a knife in him. And if  _ that  _ doesn’t work, I will take my brother by the scruff of his  _ impudent  _ neck and throw him bodily into the deepest circle of Hell myself. Castiel isn’t coming out of this alive, Dean. I hope you said your goodbyes.”

“I’ll stop you!” Dean said, stupidly. “I’ll - I won’t let you do this -”

“The Tree will be mine,” Lucifer interrupted, as though he hadn’t spoken, “like it should be. And humanity will fall utterly from grace, as it should have done. No more caught between Heaven and Hell; you shall all be consigned to the pit, far from my Father’s love. And He will welcome me home at last, when I am proven right…”

“You’re sick,” Dean choked. “You’re sick. Castiel is your  _ brother. _ ”

“Mmmm,” Lucifer mused. “And I’m his. But I don’t see him standing out here trying to help me, do you?” He glanced over at the burning car, and snapped his fingers.

Immediately, the flames were extinguished.

“Put him in the car,” Lucifer said to Crowley. “And keep your own gun on him. If he escapes and comes to try to spoil my plans, you’ll not be forgotten on the list of heads that will roll. Clear?”

“Yes, Sir. Crystal, Sir.”

“Wonderful. Goodbye, Dean,” said Lucifer, with Sam’s mouth. “It’s been ever so nice getting to know you…” He clapped his hands. “But it’s time to go and kill the beast!”

“Kill the beast!” roared back the crowd, as one. Dean stared at them - people he knew, people he saw often - and he didn’t recognise them in the light of the fire on their faces.

Crowley hustled Dean into the car at the point of a gun, and Lucifer began to stride away. As Crowley slammed the door on Dean, he leaned out the window - shattered by the heat - and called after the angel and his mob.

“Sam!” he yelled. “Sam - if you can hear me, if you’re in there - don’t let him kill Cas! Don’t let him -”

And then Crowley struck the side of his head, and everything went black.


	27. Chapter 27

Dean opened his eyes blearily, the side of his head resting against the door of the car. He scrunched up his face against the pain, and sat up - feeling as though the world was moving around his head as he did so, making a low groaning sound.

“That didn’t take long,” said a familiar, accented voice from outside the car. Dean spat out the window, and put a hand up to touch his head - he hissed when he touched a swollen bruise, and felt liquid blood on his fingertips. “Oh, very beautiful. Someone’s good at expectorating.”

“Crowley,” Dean said, his voice coming out like sandpaper over his throat. “You have to let me go.”

Crowley gave a little dry laugh.

“Oh, yeah,” he said. “You’re right. Let me just forget the fact that my neck is on the line and open the door for you.”

The car reeked of charred leather and rubber; Dean’s stomach heaved as he took in a breath.

“You do that,” Dean said, his eyes beginning to search around the interior for something - anything - that had survived the conflagration, something he could use to escape. He could see nothing; it was all on his powers of persuasion. He turned out the window to look at Crowley, who was standing several feet back, his face lit up spectrally by the Walmart sign above them. He had a gun in his right hand. “Seriously. I can’t stay here. I’m either going with your permission, or without it.”

Crowley made a scoffing noise.

“Big talk,” he said. “Coming from the guy without a gun.”

Dean leaned out the window.

“Big talk,” he said, “coming from the guy with a lot to lose tonight.”

Crowley’s face lost an inch or two of ground on smugness; Dean pressed on.

“You really think,” he said, “that you can keep me in here? My brother is out there. My friends are out there. My - an angel is out there, who doesn’t deserve to die. Do you  _ really  _ think that you, Fergus Crowley, my little boss with a tiny little gun, is going to be able to stop me from helping them?”

Crowley’s eyes were glinting.

“You’re talking, but I’m seeing no way for you to escape,” he said. “So keep telling stories, Mother, and I’ll just wait here for something to happen.”

Dean reached out a hand, and opened the door of the car.

Crowley tensed, his fingers clenching around his gun.

“Get back in the fucking car,” he said. “Or else -”

“Or else what?” Dean demanded. He pushed the door open, just a couple of inches.

“Or else I’ll shoot you, you prick!”

Dean smiled.

“You know what,” he said. “If I don’t make it to that castle, Sam’s as good as dead and so is Cas, and who knows what happens to the ghosts without him around. So, guess what? If I don’t make it to that castle, I got no reason to live anyway.”

He pushed the door wider, and set a foot down outside the car.

“I’m warning you -”

“Warn me,” Dean demanded. “Go on. Warn me. Warn me about what you’re going to do. What is it you’re going to do, again?”

Second foot out the car. Crowley hadn’t moved, hadn’t even levelled the gun at Dean.

“Dean -”

“You’ve known me for years, Crowley,” Dean said. “Fergus Crowley, the man who helped me sell out my garage. Fergus Crowley, the man who watched me work myself raw day in, day out, just to keep it going at all. Fergus Crowley, the man -” Dean decided to take a leap - “who pays me late-night visits all too often. You think I don’t know how you feel, Crowley? You think I don’t know?”

Crowley blinked at him, the gun still clenched in his fist.

“I - I don’t -” he said. The blow had landed. Dean stood up, levering himself out of the car and refusing to stagger when his head spun. His total confidence was all that was winning this for him, and the blood on the back of his neck would just have to wait to be wiped away.

“You wouldn’t shoot me,” Dean said. “Not after all this time. Just admit it, why don’t you? You care too much. You, Fergus Crowley, care too much to shoot me.”

Crowley shook his head, silent negation; Dean took a step forward, and raised his arms.

“Fine,” he said. “Shoot me. Because in five seconds, I’m going to walk up to you and I’m going to take that gun from you. Five.”

“Dean, stop this,” Crowley said. “You know I’ve got to bloody do it! If I don’t, it’ll be my head -”

“Four.” Dean took a step closer.

“He doesn’t screw around, he’s the Devil! He won’t -”

“Three.” Another step. Dean felt utterly powerful, and adrenalised; he had no faith in the fact that Crowley wouldn’t shoot, only faith in the fact that if Crowley didn’t shoot, Dean won, and if Crowley did shoot, Dean would be too dead to care.

“Dean -”

“Two.”

“Dean. Please.”

“One.” Dean was in Crowley’s space, now, within arm’s reach of the gun. He made no sudden move to seize it, though, instead looking down into Crowley’s dark, beady eyes.

“Shoot me,” he said softly. “If you’re going to.”

Crowley kept eye contact for another two seconds, before his eyes slid away. Dean reached out, slowly, and took the gun.

“What do I do,” Crowley said. “I’m a fucking fool. What do I do now?”

Dean held the gun as though it were alive, carefully. He checked the safety was on, and whether it was loaded - four bullets - before looking back at Crowley.

“Run,” he said. “Go find somewhere else, where intimidating still looks good on you.”

He turned away, gun in hand, and didn’t bother to check what Crowley did behind him. He walked across the dark parking lot to the Impala, whose door was still wide open, just as Dean had left it - and perched on the driver’s side seat, feet on the ground outside, was -

“Chuck...” Dean said, surprised. “You’re not with the Kill The Beast mob?”

“Mobs aren’t really my thing these days,” Chuck said. “I saw what you just did. You’ve changed.”

Dean looked down at the gun in his hand. He remembered the last time he’d spoken to Chuck, in this exact parking lot - he’d bought the guy a toothbrush.

“I’d still buy you a toothbrush,” said Dean, because he didn’t know what else to say, and this seemed important. Chuck dipped his head in acknowledgement of this. “I, uh - I need my car back. Now.”

“She’s looking a little beat up,” Chuck said, getting to his feet and stepping out of Dean’s way. Dean swung himself in behind the wheel, and put the gun down on the seat next to him. It lay there, shining blackly in the low light like an oil spill, or like a snake’s eye.

“She’s been through it,” Dean said. “But she’ll get me there.”

“Good luck,” said Chuck. “Don’t forget about -”

The rest of his words were lost as Dean fired up the engine, and the Impala roared her defiance.

“Take care of yourself,” Dean yelled out the window. Chuck nodded, his blue eyes complicated and weary-looking, his brow creased with concern.

As the Impala moved off, he patted the trunk - and the radio flicked on, cutting into a song halfway through.

_ Death comes driving, _

_ I can’t do nothing! _

Dean gritted his teeth, and drove.

Halfway to the castle, he threw the gun out the window into woods. He remembered the blank look on Garth’s face; the menacing unison with which the crowd was being forced to move. There was no way he was shooting a gun made to kill people. Not tonight.


	28. Chapter 28

Inside Lucifer’s head, Sam could still see out of his own eyes.

He could even feel a little of the angel’s emotions; he felt excited, triumphant, powerful. He loved having these people behind him, utterly bent to his will - where they belonged, the stupid mud-dwellers - and he loved the sensation of walking towards what he knew would be a victory.

Sam hoped that a little of his own emotions were bleeding through to Lucifer, too. He hoped Lucifer felt his revulsion, his sadness, his fear. He hoped that, in his own way, he was ruining Lucifer’s moment just a little.

In the space left to him inside his own brain, Sam couldn’t stop replaying the sight of Dean - wide-eyed, helpless, terrified - watching someone else drive his body around. It had all been for nothing. Dean had been safe, the entire time. And now Lucifer’s thoughts were so loud, so all-encompassing, that Sam was barely a whisper in his own mind; he had no strength. Lucifer was everywhere; his brain felt as though it was made of light, light that burned.

They marched onwards through the woods. Lucifer’s feet seemed to make the land go past absurdly fast, and his mob of followers were always close behind. The burning only got worse. Sam could feel his eyes beginning to strain under new visions, colours that he could almost see but not understand. And in his mind, Lucifer’s knowledge - his perspective, his very essence - was a fire through his synapses. They cracked and broke, deadened, under the effort to process knowledge that was not meant for them.

When the wolves came for the group, in the woods - and the wolves came, of course, all filth and blood and ravaging - it only got worse. Flicks of Lucifer’s hands sent the people of the town to the wolves, distracting them with the rending of their own flesh, with the spilling of their blood. Through the carnage, Lucifer walked in Sam’s body, stepping carefully around the red streaks in the snow. The wolves didn’t touch him, too busy feasting and quenching their thirst.

They reached the gate - the barrier, Sam knew, for this was where the wolves had stopped chasing him, before. If Lucifer got through here, then they were into the castle - Lucifer, that was, and the thirty or so people of the town who were remaining.

“I feel like we need a bit of a song,” Lucifer said. “Anyone for a song?”

The words felt sick and patronising on Sam’s tongue. When Lucifer turned to look, Sam saw Garth - Dean’s friend, of a kind - standing behind them, his white face slashed with red, his body moving jerkily as though he were trying to fight the urge to press on.

And yet they pressed on. Through the barrier, and into the castle. Sam felt hope die within him - and he felt an answering note of smugness sound in his brain, from the angel. So, Lucifer  _ could  _ sense his emotions - Sam was making himself felt, even in the smallest of ways.

“Maybe later, with the song,” Lucifer said. “We’ll all be feeling it, then.” He began to hum, breaking out into words after a few moments. “Screw your courage to the sticking place…”

*

High in the West Wing, Charlie knocked on the door of Castiel’s room.

**enter.**

Walking through the door without bothering to open it, Charlie’s eyes searched an empty room for several moments, until finally she caught sight of Castiel out on his balcony with the rose, looking down at it with his hands folded behind his back.

“Castiel…” she said, her voice sounding thin - she wasn’t even especially far from her tether, but she was frightened, and that always made her less substantial. “There are intruders! They’ve got past the gate - and at the head of them is that boy, it’s like he could get them all through, I don’t understand it -”

**it is lucifer. sam has lucifer inside him. i sense it.**

Castiel’s voice was small, his angelic tones muted, almost lost. Charlie’s voice trembled when she spoke again.

“We are going to try to stop them getting to the Tree,” she said. “Will you come?”

**there is no point. he is within the castle.**

“Castiel -”

**i am bound in this form, Charlie, so long as the curse lasts. i cannot fight him like this. it would be as a housecat fighting a wolf.**

“ _ Castiel - _ ”

**and you, yourselves, can do no good. you are ghosts. he will brush you away as easily as smoke. it is not worth trying.**

“Shut up!” Charlie said, her ghostly fists balling tightly. “Just shut up! I’m so sorry we’re not all ready to give up on humanity until we’ve given it the last of our every fruitless fucking try, Castiel, but we’re not all quitters!”

Castiel turned mournful eyes on her.

**he will come for me,** he said.  **lucifer. he will kill me.**

“Might as well die defending what’s important,” Charlie said stiffly. “If you have to die.”

Castiel shook his head.

**what’s important is not here,** he said.  **let them come.**


	29. Chapter 29

Dean pulled the Impala to a stop, and got out of the car, and stared.

Red. Red on snow, red everywhere. The path to the castle was a bath of blood, as far as Dean could see to where the road was lost round a corner.

So many people.  _ So  _ many. The wolves, at least, were nowhere to be seen -

A low, faint moan came from the nearest huddled, bloodied mass. Dean, before he could think twice, was already running; he tore off his coat, and wrapped it around the form of a man he thought he recognised.

“Benny, right?” said Dean. The man, lying curled in the snow, nodded bitterly. “Where did it get you?”

“Upper arm,” Benny said. He tried to sit up, and groaned. “ _ Jesus.  _ Non-fatal, but it’s gonna sting me in the morning.”

“You’re a doctor?”

“Nah,” said Benny. “Just…” He seemed to lose track of what he was saying, and then refind his thread. “Just know some stuff about some things. Where’s - how did we…” The man looked around him, and for the first time he saw the other people lying around him in the snow - the red on the ground.

Without another word, he fainted.

Dean looked down at him, caught. If he could be lifted, the Impala could keep him warm enough that he wouldn’t become hypothermic - but Dean had no time, no  _ time - _

“Here,” said another voice, a woman’s, croaky and thin, coming from the woods. “Here - I can see help -” A figure was expelled by the dense trees, followed by others; smaller figures, Dean realised with horror, dripping red. Wounded children. And more, behind them. A whole line of people, led by the woman.

“What…?” Dean said to her, as she approached him. She looked at him with narrowed eyes.

“You like your brother? Gonna lead us all back to Hell? Oh, wait,” she said, “I forgot, we’re still in it.” She gave a dry little laugh, in which Dean could hear the faint murmurings of hysterical shock.

“I’m Dean,” he said. “I’m not - I’m myself. You are…?”

“Missouri,” she said. “I’m Missouri. Listen, we need to get these people back to town. The kids, especially. I ain’t found one dead yet, it’s like those wolves weren’t even trying to kill us. Just stop us carrying on. Looks bad, but they’re all wounds that aren’t in bad places. We’ll all make it, so far, if we can get to safety.”

She gave a pointed look to the car behind Dean. He turned to look at it, too, and then looked back at Missouri with an awkward expression.

“I can’t stay,” he said, speaking fast, urgent. “I can’t, my brother - I stopped because I saw all the -”

“Then you best run along,” Missouri said. Dean nodded.

“Right,” he said. “Right.” He turned away.

“Boy?” 

He turned back.

Missouri smiled at him wanly, though still with enough of a hard stare tucked behind it to remind Dean inexorably of Charlie.

“You better leave me with that car, though,” she said.

*

Sam watched Lucifer stop, and contemplate the scene before him.

The Tree was there - waiting for him, branches spread, red apples looking as juicy and sweet as ever. Even despite the burning in his brain, Sam felt a twist of lust in his gut for the fruit; as though hardwired into him, the pull of the Tree was impossible not to feel.

Around the base of the trunk stood five insubstantial figures: ghosts, Sam remembered, the ghosts. He felt Lucifer sorting through his memories, figuring out who these five were. When he realised, Lucifer gave a little crow of delight.

“So, you’re the little apes that were killed in that park,” he said, striding forwards, hands in his pockets. Five determined, translucent faces met his gaze. “Back for more. Aren’t you  _ brave. _ ”

They faced him silently.

“What are you going to do to stop me? I don’t scare easily, you know. You can’t say ‘boo’ and expect me to lie flat,” Lucifer said, his lips curling up cruelly. Behind him, his bloodied mob stood silently, too; Lucifer was like the single actor on a play in the round, holding forth. He cast a glance up at the castle - and what he saw there seemed to please him, because his smile only widened.

Sam felt Lucifer making a decision. The angel knew that he should fly away with the Tree’s fruit immediately, but there was a temptation within him that Sam could sense - a desire to go and find Castiel, and mock him for the paltry defence he’d managed to maintain.

Pushing aside his disgust at Lucifer’s arrogance, Sam forced himself to feel positively about the second option.  _ How satisfying it’d be…  _ he thought, subtly, quietly.  _ How fun it’d be to see his face, knowing he’s lost, after so long waiting... _

“Seeing as I’m meeting… shall we say… considerably less opposition than I’d been afraid of,” Lucifer said, “I think I’m going to enjoy this a little bit. Go up and say hello to your master.” Sam felt a kick of triumph; he’d bought them some time. Lucifer wouldn’t be leaving immediately with what he’d come for, at least.

“He’s master to none of us,” shouted back one of the ghosts - a short-haired young woman, Sam noted. “He’s our  _ friend. _ ”

Sam felt his face contort into mock-surprise. “My brother Castiel, befriending the apes again? Who would have thought. Did he at least tell  _ you  _ about my little gift?”

“If you mean the rose -” shouted the woman, and Lucifer waved an arm.

“Bored, now,” he said. “I’ll be back to finish you off whenever it will inflict maximum damage on my poor little brother. I’d warn you not to follow me, but - you know -” He gestured to them, up and down. “It wouldn’t really make much difference if you did.”

He left them looking dumbstruck - and the mob of people, too, whom Lucifer seemed to have briefly forgotten about. When they flashed loudly through Sam’s mind, though, Lucifer recollected them; he turned. Sam could feel the slight breeze starting to whisper against sore patches on his skin, that felt raw and hot. He was  _ burning.  _ Lucifer, meanwhile, was smirking at his entranced followers.

“Go and find creative ways to destroy the castle,” he said. “There’s good apes.”


	30. Chapter 30

Dean ran.

Blood thudded in his ears. Every step that he took, he was cursing - cursing the wolves, cursing Lucifer, cursing the snow, cursing his boots and their bad grip; cursing his own slowness, his lack of lung capacity, his too-short legs. Castiel at fifteen feet would have made short work of the run, but Dean kept finding himself sinking calf-deep into drifts.

It didn’t matter. All that mattered was that he kept going.

The wound on his head was pounding; he thought he could feel fresh blood leaking from it.

It didn’t _matter._ He just had to keep going.

He just had to get there in time.

*

Lucifer ascended the castle through the carnage that his followers were making of it, disinterested in their activities - and in the distraught faces of the ghosts, who could do nothing more than watch as their home was destroyed. Sam watched the young one attempt to heave up a vase in his insubstantial fingers, wanting to use it for a weapon - but another ghost, a taller one, made him put it back down.

Perhaps she knows, Sam thought. Perhaps she knows that they aren’t themselves. That these people wouldn’t be doing this, if they had any choice.

Lucifer left them all behind, heading up into a quieter part of the castle, free of the incoherent yelling and crashing sounds of destruction. Intuitively, the angel seemed to know where to find his brother; trying to understand what Lucifer was thinking felt like putting the flat of his hand on a hot stove, so Sam couldn’t be sure, but he suspected Lucifer was using some kind of divine ability to navigate the rabbit-warren of a home.

When Lucifer walked Sam’s body through the door of a particularly large room and they both saw Castiel standing at the far end, peering down at a flower - at _the_ rose, Sam recognised - Lucifer reached for the gun that Crowley had given him.

 _Angel-killing bullets,_ Lucifer had said. So, it would be as simple as firing one shot, and Castiel would be gone.

Sam, the burning pain rising and rising, tried thinking, _drop it._

Lucifer jerked - for a second, Sam felt a rush of victory - and then the gun was being pulled back firmly into Lucifer’s hold, and the angel was offering him a snide smirk within the space of their shared mind. _Nice try,_ seemed to be the message. _But never going to happen._

Sam gritted his teeth. It would be impossible to close his eyes when Lucifer pulled the trigger; he’d have to watch himself shoot another living thing, just as he’d watched those wolves in the woods tearing apart the townspeople. He hoped the nausea and horror he felt were marring Lucifer’s steadily buoyant mood, even a little.

“Castiel,” said Lucifer in Sam’s voice, and the angel on the balcony acknowledged his presence with a slight dip of his chin.

 **lucifer,** he said. Sam’s heart sank; Castiel already sounded small, and defeated.

“You’re looking very thoughtful, my brother. Meditating on defeat, are we?” Lucifer said, stepping closer. When Castiel didn’t reply, and only gazed more firmly down at the rose, Lucifer went to stand beside him. “Ah, yes,” he said. “My special gift to you.” He lifted the glass cover off the top of the flower; Castiel made no move to stop him. “What was it again? Ah, yes, that’s right.” Lucifer snapped his fingers. “Only when one of the mud-monkeys you love _so_ much actually loves you _back,_ will you be fully restored to whatever shape you should choose. Yes, yes, I remember this now. Until then, you’re stuck looking like a toy-size version of yourself.”

Castiel didn’t raise his eyes; he looked utterly destroyed.

 **i am loved,** he said.

Lucifer snorted.

“The ghosts don’t count, Castiel. It’s got to be a _live_ one.”

If it was possible, the pain in Castiel’s eyes intensified.

“Ah, and you’ve still got so many petals left on here, too.” Lucifer reached out, and casually shredded one of them off. “Pity. So much more time until you were stuck like this forever, and here I am come to kill you anyway. Kind of ruins the poetry a little, doesn't it?”

Castiel was unmoved. He still had his hands clasped behind his back, four wings slightly lifted out from his body.

“Tell me, Castiel - what’s it like, to look like a fool for so long?”

Lucifer leaned in closer to him. Words were starting to taste like blood and oil on Sam’s tongue; his flesh was crying out, and felt as though it was supperating in places. Holding the angel in his body was breaking him.

“What’s it like to lose?” Lucifer said, his voice silky soft. God, but Sam hated him - hated the feel of sharing a mind with him, hated who he was right down to the core.

Castiel still said nothing. Lucifer pressed in harder, his lips almost touching Castiel’s cheek.

“What’s it like,” he said, “to be a failure?”

Without changing his expression - without any show of emotion - Castiel replied simply,

**after all these years, you would know better than i, brother.**

Lucifer’s mood blackened. Sam felt it like a branding iron, the sudden anger; he cried out, in a place where no one could hear him. Lucifer raised the gun in his hand, and backed away, pointing it at Castiel’s head.

 _No,_ thought Sam. _No…_ He began to fight with everything he had, battling to regain control of his body. There had to be some way to stop this, some way to help - but it was like a wavelet running up against a seawall, no chance of breaking through. Sam rammed himself against Lucifer, but the angel didn’t even seem to notice.

“Maybe I should just shoot you now,” Lucifer said, his tone ugly. “I was going to make you watch all your little so-called friends get smoked first, but now I think I won’t even bother. You’re not worth my time.”

Castiel looked at Lucifer with steady, sorrowful eyes.

 **do what you must, Lucifer,** he said. And then he added, **sam, i know you can hear me. i am sorry for failing you, and letting you leave the castle to head straight into danger. i am truly sorry.**

For the first time, Sam thought he understood the desperation in Dean’s voice, when his older brother had shouted after him, _don’t let him kill Cas! Don’t let him…_

And he _had_ sounded desperate. He had sounded stretched thin over it, and it stuck in Sam’s mind. Castiel couldn’t be allowed to die. Deeply, intuitively, because he knew his brother, Sam understood that Castiel _could not_ be allowed to die.

Lucifer pulled back the safety on the gun, cocking it.

“No ordinary bullets are these, brother,” said Lucifer, a little of his levity returning - though still with a snarling twist to it. “Angel killers. One shot, and you’re dead.”

Castiel only watched him. Sam felt Lucifer take his immutability as an insult, as a goad; anger rose like a wave within him, sending words spilling out over his burning tongue. It _hurt_ to speak, now, more pain than Sam had ever felt before in his life. And his body, it felt as though it was cracking; his bones, themselves, were on fire, ready to pop and spit and swelter out of his skin. He was crying, in the corner of his mind that was still his; he couldn’t help it.

“You should fear me!” Lucifer was hissing. “I can bring about your end, Castiel! I can see it done, that you will never walk this earth again - never speak to your precious apes, never grow your precious plants! You will lose _all_ that you have. You should show _fear._ ”

Castiel’s placid eyes blinked, once.

 **i have failed in my duty,** he said plainly. **and you intend to kill my family. i am powerless to stop the destruction you wreak here, trapped by this curse that i cannot break. Dean is lost to me…**

The low, terrible voice shuddered for a second, and then continued.

 **what possible reason could i have to be afraid?** he said. **the worst has happened. you wish to send me to hell? i am in it.**

He turned to face Lucifer, and widened his stance.

 **shoot me,** he said. **do it. i am ready, brother.**

Lucifer paused; Sam sensed his confusion - being begged to hurt someone was, apparently, not a familiar feeling - but he eventually shrugged, and levelled the gun once more.

 _No, no, no -_ Sam was frantic. He threw himself against Lucifer’s control over his mind, yelling with the pain, the frustration. The way that Castiel said his brother’s name… he _needed_ to live. He _had_ to live.

“Have it your way, little brother,” he said. “After this, I’m going to go and smoke your ghosts. Then, I’m going to take the whole Tree. I'm telling you this, Castiel, because after all you've put me through, all this trouble - I want you to die knowing you _failed_. Failed at everything you tried to do.”

Sam would never regain control of his whole body in time. Hurling himself against the wall of Lucifer's will was having no effect; he was too small, too weak.

But he didn't need to have control of his _whole_ body, did he? Perhaps, if he focused on just one place - if one single place on his body could be his own -

He felt his own finger tightening on the trigger, and with every ounce of strength in his burning, aching, terrified mind, Sam threw himself against the action, and screamed with all his might.

“ _No!”_

The word burst from Lucifer’s lips - from _Sam’s_ lips - and the finger on the trigger stilled.

Lucifer’s response was swift and immediate; his anger was like immolation, and Sam couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t _live_ through it.

“Let me do this,” Lucifer hissed. Sam, reeling with the pain, registered the gun about to go off - and, thinking only of his brother, rammed his mind like a matchstick into a closing door. _No. You can't do this. My finger, my hand. I choose if this gun goes off._ He was a whisper, trying to speak over a shout - but no matter how much Lucifer struggled, no matter how hard he pulled, he couldn’t bring Sam’s trigger finger to fire.

 **sam?** said Castiel, softly, from across the room; he was watching the two of them locked in combat. **is that… you?**

Sam could spare no time for replies, for distraction. He wrapped himself around his own determination and clung to it, even as Lucifer’s presence in his mind battered against him; it felt like coming under mental machine-gun fire. Sam could feel himself buckling, could feel his mental determination ebbing, try as he might to hold on. It wasn’t going to be enough, it wasn’t going to be quite enough, and Dean was going to lose Castiel -

_Don’t let him kill Cas!_

Sam gnashed his teeth, and with a great yell of defiance, he pushed away Lucifer’s barrage of mind-fire.

“OUT!” he screamed - and like a flowing away of water through a dam, he felt the presence of Lucifer diminish, and diminish, and diminish…

Until it was gone.

Sam, a charred husk from the inside out, collapsed to his knees.

“Is… is he dead?” he murmured, as Castiel stepped forward and placed a hand on his shoulder.

 **i… do not know,** Castiel said, and there was a note in his voice that said, quite clearly, _probably not._ Sam’s body shuddered. His skin was on fire; his tongue was burned; he ached…

And then Castiel’s fingertips were on his forehead, and the sensation eased.

 **i will go and find him,** said Castiel - and those were the last words Sam heard, before the ground rushed up to meet him, and everything faded to black.


	31. Chapter 31

Dean emerged from the snowy wastes that formed the first third of Castiel’s castle gardens, and found himself running through easier terrain. The snow, here, was thinner; he was able to make better time. He was straining his ears, his eyes; he listened for any sound from his brother, looked for a sight of Lucifer, of Castiel, of anyone he knew, by the light of the full moon that had risen above them in the star-wounded sky -

From inside the castle, Dean thought he heard yelling and clattering and smashing. He didn’t know whether to be relieved, or to be more terrified; at least some people were left alive to be fighting, but he didn’t know who they were and he had nothing but his own two fists to add to the fray.

He ran onwards. His muscles were aching, protesting - if he survived to see the next sunrise, he was going to suffer for his exploits tonight.

And then - up on the multifaceted roof of the castle, something caught Dean’s eye. Movement. A dark silhouette, prowling the uppermost turret…

A hand, a hand half the size of Castiel’s whole body, reached around the side of the tower, picked up Castiel, and flung him off.

Dean stopped running.

“ _What the -_ ” he managed, a tiny, petrified whisper. And from behind the tower, following the hand, came a curled horn - a great forehead - a pair of eyes. A beast. This, this was truly the beast.

It seemed taller than the castle itself, too bulking and weighty to be real. Its skin was pale, milky white, and in the moonlight Dean could see the marks of red scars dappling its every fold of flesh; it had a great, twisting horns, and eyes as black as poison. Its hands were taloned things; its every movement seemed to set the air groaning, protesting.

 _Lucifer,_ Dean thought. He sank to his knees. They were finished; they were done. Lucifer had discarded Sam as his vessel, and this was his true form - this hideous, single-headed, scarred, pitted thing. When it swung around the tower to look for Castiel, foul hands grasping for him against the tiles, Dean saw that on its back were two stumps: two broken-off, burned stubs where his wings should have been.

There was a cry from above as Lucifer managed to get his hand around Castiel; the smaller angel barely seemed to be fighting back. Lucifer flung him against the roof of his own castle, and Castiel sprawled; Dean jerked forwards, feeling the impact as though it was his own.

“Get up, get up,” he said aloud, watching Castiel slowly raise his head, but make no more effort to escape or to fight back; Lucifer leaned forwards, and pressed the tip of his giant thumb against Castiel’s chest, squeezing him up against the roof where he’d landed.

“Fight back,” Dean ground out, through gritted teeth. “Fight back!” Castiel was unmoving; Lucifer’s sinewy, pale arm raised, the better to put pressure on Castiel’s body. Dean wanted to scream with frustration; however fast he ran, he’d never make it up onto the roof in time to do anything. “CAS!” he yelled. “CAS!”

Nothing happened for one second, for two - and then Lucifer jolted as though stung, and whipped his hand away from Castiel. When the smaller angel sat up, Dean could see silver, angelic blood dripping down his chin; he had bitten Lucifer, startled him away.

“CAS, RUN!” Dean yelled. Castiel stared down at him - at this distance, Dean couldn’t make out any expression, only the glow of his blue-moon eyes - and then he got to his feet, and jumped into the air, and _flew_. Dean sucked in a breath. He’d never had the chance to truly see Castiel fly; his sets of wings worked in perfect harmony, beating powerfully against the sky, silver-gilded in the bright moonlight. Lucifer growled - an earthquake, a tremor, a terror - and narrowed his black, black eyes.

Castiel circled high around his head for one second, two seconds, three - and then he dived, and Dean could see the flash of silver light off the extended claws on his hands.

Dean could stand to watch from below no longer. He needed to get up there, needed to be able to help. He hauled himself to his feet, his aching legs protesting - and broke into a sprint, heading for the castle door.

The steps were as slippery as always, but Dean knew how to climb them easily, now; he gripped the parapet, and took them two at a time. The front door hung wide on its hinges; Dean plunged inside, and only narrowly escaped being hit in the face with a china plate. It shattered uselessly against the doorframe.

“Wh-?” he managed, and then ducked as another crockery missile was launched towards him, and this time shattered on the door itself.

“Hold up!” yelled a voice from deeper inside the castle. “It’s Dean!”

Five ghostly blueish heads poked up from behind a fallen table, and as Dean’s eyes adjusted to the gloom inside the hallway, he realised that he was surrounded by fallen bodies once again; he began to pick his way through them as quickly as he could, occasionally stepping on a piece of broken bowl or cup, and crunching it to dust beneath his boots. One of the townspeople who had been knocked out gave a gentle snore, his bald head given a corona by a broken plate.

“Dean - did you see - I built a catapult!” said Kevin. “It’s -”

“You did great,” Dean panted, not stopping; he began to run up the stairs. “Stay - stay here!”

“What’s happening?” demanded Charlie.

“Luci- Luci- Lucifer!” Dean managed to get out, and ran on. Behind him, he heard the ghosts start shouting again as another wave of people from the town made an assault on them.

The path to the West Wing was so familiar, now, that Dean could have run it blindfolded. He didn’t know why his feet took him there - he could have easily gone to the tallest tower, or the one closest to where he’d last seen Castiel - but his feet made the decision for him.

His breath was a saw; his heart was a drumbeat of agony. He needed to stop, he needed to _breathe -_

He burst through the door into the West Wing, and experienced a moment of utter, soul-dissolving terror when he saw the prostrate figure of Sam, lying on the floor, legs bent awkwardly underneath him.

“SAM!” Dean yelled, not running so much as flying to his brother’s side. He knelt, grasped roughly at Sam’s shirt, pulled him up onto his own knees; he was cradling his brother's head in one shaking hand, stroking at his hair with one thumb. “Sam - Sam, come on -”

“Dean?” came the tiny mutter, and Dean let out a groan of relief. He pressed the palm of his hand to the side of his younger brother’s face and leaned back, closing his eyes to the sky in thanks.

“I’m here, Sammy, it’s OK. I’ve got you. Hurt? Are you hurt?”

Sam’s face, laced across with red burn marks, pulled itself into a rueful, pained smile.

“Everywhere,” he said.

Dean let out a little broken breath.

“Everywhere,” he agreed. He felt it, too. His battered head was pounding blood down his neck, and his soul felt ragged thin. He wanted to stop; he just wanted it all to stop, he wanted it to end. "Sam, I'm so -"

“Go,” Sam said to him. His eyes were clearing; he looked suddenly more lucid. He sat up of his own accord, just a little. “Dean - you need to go. Castiel went out on the roof and Lucifer went with him, and -”

“I know,” Dean said. “But are you -”

“I’m here. I’m safe. _Go,_ ” Sam said. Dean didn’t need telling again. He got to his feet, made to leave - and then, at the last moment, he noticed something resting in Sam’s hand. Something that made Dean’s blood run cold.

“Sammy,” he said. “That gun…”

Sam looked down at it, and then held it up to Dean.

“Angel-killing bullets,” he said - and nodded.

Dean nodded in return.

He ran for the balcony, eyes adjusting once again to the light outside. He peered around frantically; Lucifer was so big that a part of him was always visible, but it was just his left hand, gripping onto a tower for support. Dean wondered if the shot had to be to Lucifer’s head, or if anywhere on his body would do it; he checked the cartridge, and found only a single bullet in there.

He hissed through his teeth. Make that an angel-killing _bullet,_ singular. No room for mistakes. He moved further out onto the balcony, trying to get a better angle. Lucifer’s head was big enough; it had to present a decent target. Maybe even a chest-shot would work. It was a while since Dean had held a gun at the firing range with his dad, but it still felt secure in his grip. He could do this.

If it was to save Castiel, he could do this.

A shadow passed over him, briefly blotting out the moon; Dean recognised Castiel, and a moment later, Lucifer’s great fist followed the path of his flight. Was it only Dean, or did that fist seem smaller than before? Up close, its scope was doubly terrifying, but relative to the rooves and turrets around it, Lucifer’s physicality seemed somewhat diminished - and a moment later, Dean understood why. Like a bullet himself, shot through the night, Castiel flew at Lucifer’s exposed arm; the great span of milky skin presented a perfect target, and Castiel’s talons raked down it, sending spurts of silver angel’s blood scattering over the roof tiles. Lucifer howled, the sound low and bugling from his gigantic lungs - and Dean watched, open-mouthed, as he shrunk a great deal more. Castiel was using Lucifer’s magnitude, his slowness, as a weapon of his own; Lucifer’s only option was to shrink himself down, become a smaller target, or else find himself bleeding out of wounds he could not stop coming.

Lucifer disappeared, and for a moment, there was no sign of either of the angels. Dean ran out further still onto the balcony - and he realised that the rose, on its table, had no glass cover on it. Dean stared at it. The rose, that was somehow part of a curse that he didn’t understand…

Dean didn’t know why it had to be covered - why Castiel had been so furious, when the glass cover had been removed, before - but it could be important. Making sure the gun was on safety, he tucked it into the belt of his trousers and quickly picked up the bell-shaped glass. He began to walk back over to the table with it, keeping an eye on the roof to his right, where Castiel had last been seen.

And then, with an almighty crash, Dean was thrown backwards as the two angels, locked in a furious, scratching, terrifying embrace, fell down onto the balcony. The gun skittered out of Dean’s belt, stopping yards away from him, too many yards; meanwhile, Castiel was a fifteen-foot whirl of claws and teeth, under a twenty-five-foot behemoth with wide, gaping jaws that looked as though it was trying to swallow the smaller angel whole.

Dean, painstakingly, began to crawl towards the gun. He could see it…

The angels were ripping into each other, faster and more vicious by a thousand times than the wolves in the woods. Their claws were painted in silver; their bodies, as unfathomable to Dean’s eyes as they had ever been, shuddered and shook with the strain of the length of the fight. Dean could see that one of Castiel’s wings was hanging awkwardly, torn. Lucifer, though, couldn’t seem to shut his jaw; Dean realised that it was broken, hanging open in an ugly, hungry maw of darkness.

**GIVE IT UP, CASTIEL. THE TREE IS MINE. YOU CANNOT WIN.**

Dean turned his head, still inching his way as surreptitiously as he could towards the gun. Lucifer was obviously using speech as an excuse to gain a breather, the words mangled by his loose-hanging jaw; he reached up a vile, twisted hand, and - with a sickening crack - relocated the jawbone into its socket. Not broken, then, Dean corrected himself. Just dislocated.

Castiel, too, seemed exhausted and glad of the pause. He staggered to his feet, and leaned against the wall.

 **I See No Evidence Of Your Certain Victory,** he snarled, gasping. **We Are Matched.**

 **IMPOSSIBLE,** Lucifer said, and took a swipe at Castiel, who dodged the tired attack with ease. **I AM FAR STRONGER THAN YOU ARE. GIVE UP, NOW. I MAY LET SOME OF YOUR PETS LIVE, IF YOU DO.**

Dean saw Castiel’s face brighten with a hard-edged smile. Dean himself kept pulling his weight along the ground, as quietly as he could.

**Bargaining, Brother? Are You Truly So Worried You WIll Lose?**

Lucifer let out a wordless growl that shook the tower, one hand reaching behind him, where Castiel could not see. Dean stared; it was as though Lucifer were reaching behind a curtain in the very air itself, and drawing out something long, and silver -

“KNIFE!” he yelled, and Castiel leapt back just as Lucifer swung the dagger - which had to be at least four feet long - towards Castiel’s chest. Their brief truce was ended.

They were back to wordless, furious fighting, only now Lucifer had a dagger, and all of Castiel’s energy was being poured into blocking and dodging his attacks, rather than making any of his own. Lucifer circled him, pushing him slowly backwards towards the edge of the balcony; Castiel’s talons were flying fast, but his little broken-off cries of pain and the new, silver blood dripping down his chest and wings spoke to his new disadvantage.

Giving up on stealth, Dean picked himself up and ran for the gun.

 **YOU ARE A FOOL, CASTIEL,** Lucifer was saying behind him, as he kept walking, pressing Castiel back towards the parapet; below, there was a heinous drop to the gardens - the snowy hedges, the pond, the Tree itself. **I SEE THE WAY YOU LOOK AT THAT HUMAN. I SEE HOW YOU FIGHT FOR HIM. DO YOU TRULY BELIEVE THAT HE COULD BE THE ONE TO BREAK YOUR CURSE?**

Castiel made no reply, all his breath wasted on protecting his chest, stopping Lucifer from landing the killing blow. His cries of pain were becoming louder, less contained. Dean reached the gun, at _last,_ he had it; he turned. Castiel was backed up against the balcony; one of his feet kicked out a whole section of the parapet, and he teetered dangerously for a second but managed to right himself. Dean levelled the gun, waiting for a clear shot.

_One chance._

**YOU ARE NOT ONE OF THEM, CASTIEL. YOU CAN NEVER BELONG WITH A HUMAN. YOU ARE LIKE ME. YOU ARE A MONSTER. YOU ARE A CREATURE. YOU ARE A** **_BEAST._ **

Dean had the shot, he was about to take it - and then, swifter than a ribbon and deadly as a viper, Castiel was under Lucifer’s arm, he was turning about, he was locking a clawed hand around Lucifer’s thick neck - and he was pushing the bigger angel out over the gap in the parapet that he’d created, threatening to drop him.

Dean stood frozen, unsure. Castiel’s great shoulders were rising and falling.

There was a moment of stillness, and heavy breathing. No one moved.

 **Drop The Knife,** Castiel said. **Or I Will Drop You.**

The muscles in his back and his neck were trembling with the effort of holding the monstrous Lucifer aloft, and not letting him go.

**CASTIEL, I CANNOT FLY -**

**So Drop The Knife.**

Dean watched, his heart in his mouth. There were several seconds of silence; Lucifer was clearly weighing his chances of being able to kill Castiel and not fall, or kill Castiel and survive the fall... Dean's hand trembled involuntarily. He could take the shot. If Castiel had miscalculated, if Lucifer decided to try his luck with falling once again -

There was a metallic clatter, and the knife fell to the ground.

Castiel didn’t let go of Lucifer; he shook him, once, hard.

 **I Am An Angel. I Am Castiel,** he said. **I Am Not A Beast.**

And he pulled Lucifer back in to safety by his throat, and threw him down to the floor.

 **Leave,** he said. **Leave Now.**

Dean watched him turn away from the pitiful sight of Lucifer, curled up on the floor, milky limbs crossed over each other in a messy heap, horned head bowed. He turned his back, and looked at Dean. Their eyes met; for a single, glorious moment, they both thought that they had won. They had eyes only for each other, existing in a world of their own -

And then - quicker than Dean could see, and quicker than Castiel could react, Lucifer unfolded himself. He seized his knife from the ground, and in a single, fluid motion, he rammed it upwards through Castiel’s back, through his entire torso, out through the other side of his chest.

"No," said Dean, simply, stupidly.

Castiel’s eyes were still on Dean’s.

He swayed, swayed, swayed. Dean watched him, eyes wide, the moment suspended.

And then Castiel sank to his knees. And Dean levelled the gun, aimed, and - with an expression of sheer rage, with a wordless yell - he fired.

The bullet flew true.

Lucifer had no chance to dodge it; it cracked into the the centre of his chest, and lodged there. He looked down at the hole it had made - at the silver already beginning to dribble out; Dean stared, hoping, praying that it would work.

There was a flicker of purple under Lucifer’s skin - and then another.

He pressed his hand to the bullet wound.

 **IT BURNS,** he said. **IT BURNS -**

With a suddenness that made Dean shout, flames rolled up from Lucifer’s chest to consume him. Purple and orange, they burned fiercely and fast; Lucifer, his scream louder and more painful and dreadful than anything Dean had ever heard, stumbled backwards. He was writhing in agony, his hands brought up to his eyes to try to protect them from the burning. Dean covered his ears, feeling his eardrums shake and threaten to burst at the volume of the screaming; he could only watch as the Beast kept staggering back, back, back...

Lucifer, devoured by bright, hot flames, tumbled over the balcony, through the hole that Castiel had made. He screamed all the way down - and then, with a crash and a dying of firelight, it was over.

It was finished.

Dean dropped the gun, and ran to Castiel’s side.

The angel had managed to stay upright, on his knees; he was hunched forward, his face bent down towards the tip of the angelic blade that stuck out of his chest.

“Hey,” Dean said, trying not to sound panicked. “Hey, hey, I’m here. I’m here. What do I do? How do I get it out? You can fix this, right?”

Castiel raised his head with an obvious effort. The balcony, now, seemed terribly quiet.

 **Good shot,** he said. **Well done.**

Dean nodded. “OK, yeah, but how do I -”

**Dean. This is an archangel blade.**

Shaking his head, Dean tried to deny what he knew Castiel was telling him.

“No,” he said. “No. I can get it out. If I just -”

 **Dean.** Castiel narrowed his eyes at Dean, in the way that Dean knew was a smile. **It’s alright.**

"Don't - don't say it like -"

**Dean, it’s over.**

“ _No,_ ” Dean said, and he put his hand to Castiel’s face. “No, Cas, come on. It can’t end like this, not after - he’s gone, we did it, see? You’ve got to - you can…”

The wound was leaking silver blood, and little bolts of purple and orange light were starting to flash around it.

Dean shook his head, and gripped Castiel’s great head in both his hands.

“Don’t leave me,” he said. “Please, please, please, don’t leave me.

**Dean...**

"Don’t leave me like this. Don’t make me say goodbye to you, too.”

Castiel’s eyes were growing heavy.

 **At least,** he said, straining out the words. **I got to see you. One last time.**

“No…”

Castiel’s eyes slipped closed. Dean gripped his head tighter, and pressed his lips to the angel’s forehead.

“Please, Cas,” he said, softly, a prayer. “Please. Don’t leave me, don’t leave all of us. Me, the ghosts, you… we’re a family. We’re family, Cas. We need you. _I_ need you...”

Castiel’s eyes stayed closed. There was a stillness about him that was final and terrible, and there were words caught in Dean’s throat that he couldn’t bring himself to say. It would be the end.

He pressed his lips to Castiel’s forehead, one last time.

“I love you,” he said.

The empty balcony swallowed up the words into silence. Castiel did not move. He did not fall, either; propped by the sword inside him, he knelt in front of Dean, as though in prayer himself.

The hush was absolute. Dean knew no feeling; he knew no emotion; he knew no concept other than pure and absolute pain. It hurt too much to cry, to breathe, to move. He simply stared at Castiel’s motionless body before him, and stared, and stared.

And so he missed, at first, the little wisp of gold that curled up from among the shattered ruins of the table, where the cursed flower had once been kept. He missed the second and the third breaths of it, too. The flower, almost destroyed by the angelic fight, had but a single petal remaining on its stem - but it was enough.

The bursts of golden light swirled higher, and longer; their magic wound out of the rose, crossed the distance between the flower and the angel, and began to wrap around him.

It was only when the light reached Castiel’s face that Dean, locked in a stupor of numbness, even noticed it; he scrambled backwards, fearful of Castiel’s body being consumed by the same purple-orange furnace that Lucifer had disappeared into.

This, though, was something different; this light was heatless, and golden, and shining. Dean watched mutely, confused and devastated and lost, as the radiance surrounded Castiel; it lifted him, slowly, magnificently, with sparks falling down from the glowing orb of ribboning light like rain. Dean’s mouth fell open; Castiel was being raised higher and higher, and after a moment, there was a familiar metallic clatter - the dagger fell out of the light, and lay on the ground. It looked cruel and dull as a dead thing, but all of Dean’s focus was on Castiel, above.

Dean watched, his breath hurting him. The light looked so right, so _good,_ and he didn’t know whether to feel hopeful - or whether to feel grateful that Castiel was, at the very least, getting the send-off that he deserved -

And then, from out of the orb, there emerged an angelic hand - and as Dean gasped, it shrunk down, lessened. Its fingers softened and narrowed and pinkened, and the hand was no longer the multi-jointed, clawed hand of an angel - but the soft, small hand of a human.

A second hand. And then the feet, and the calves; the light was diminishing a little, and Dean could see a torso being formed, a head, arms, hips. Slowly, the body was returned to the Earth; its limbs were loose and swaying, as though its owner was asleep. On its back, hanging unchecked, was a single pair of big, black wings.

The body landed on the ground, kneeling, face bent down towards the ground - just as Castiel had been resting, before.

On the horizon, unnoticed by Dean, the sun blossomed into golden light. Dawn came, unremarked.

 _No,_ Dean thought, not letting himself believe it what he was seeing before him on the balcony. _Surely not…_

He took a hesitant step forward, and reached out a hand to the definitely-human-shaped person kneeling on the ground; and then the person took in a deep, gasping, shuddering breath, and Dean jolted back.

For several long moments, the person only breathed, head pointed downwards, his wings uplifted from his body, now, and his nakedness absolute.

“Castiel?” Dean tried.

The person went still, those powerful, tanned shoulder stopping their heaving breaths and settling into a more natural rhythm.

“Castiel,” Dean said again, with a little more certainty.

The person looked up - and staring up at Dean was one of the most beautiful faces that Dean had ever seen in his life. Full lips, dark hair, strong cheekbones and a sharp jawline - the features of a stranger - all framed a pair of bright, bright blue eyes…

The person stood up, and Dean approached - hesitant, ready for the mirage to fade, for the dream to end.

“Dean?” the person said. “It’s me.”

Dean came closer. There was something in the tone of that voice that was familiar - the way that his own name, _Dean,_ was spoken with such reverence. Lifting a hesitant hand, Dean touched the backs of his fingers to person’s cheek. He looked into the eyes - those blue eyes, light and good and true, blue-moon eyes -

“It _is_ you,” Dean said. “Oh, my god - Cas -”

He threw his arms around the man in front of him, and - after a moment of stillness - Castiel raised his brand new arms, and hugged him back.

Dean closed his eyes. The embrace felt just as good as he remembered being held in Castiel’s arms could be; he felt tears sliding down his cheeks, and didn’t try to check them.

“I thought I was -” Castiel said, his voice humming in his chest; Dean could feel it, they were pressed so close.

“So did I,” Dean said, pulling back to look at Castiel again - Castiel, in this form, in almost-human form. His chest felt as though it could explode with sheer joy. He put his hand to the side of Castiel’s cheek, and offered a little laugh. “Don’t - don't you ever scare me like that again, OK?”

Castiel mirrored his pose, brought his new hand up to cup Dean’s face. Dean leaned into the touch.

The moment shifted - changed -

“Dean,” said Castiel, and then Dean pressed forwards, and kissed his new, magical lips.

And one kiss was not enough, of course.

It never would be.


	32. Chapter 32

In the hazy morning light, Dean awoke in his bed in the castle - and beside him, there was an angel. For a long while, he simply basked in that feeling; in the sensation of waking up, and having Castiel beside him. Several times, during sleep, they had drifted apart - and each time, they had ended up reaching out to each other in semi-conscious need for touch.

Dean had been  _held_ as he slept. His chest ached with the good that it had done to him.

They had slept long, and well.

Castiel had his eyes open, softly-focused. They were under the covers; Castiel had them pulled up over his chin, only his blue eyes and his bedhead poking out above - and the tips of both wings, of course.

“Mmmm,” Dean said softly. “Good morning. Or - afternoon.”

“Evening, I think,” Cas said. His voice was still a low rumble; Dean was getting used to it, without its angelic notes. He found he quite liked it. It still sounded like Cas, but just a little closer to human - a little more like something Dean could understand. And didn't that just sum it up? Where before, Dean hadn't been able to see Cas' body truly - had been blinded to it by pure mortality - he was now able to see, to touch. It was still Cas, only a little more within his reach.

Dean blinked sleepily. “Should check on Sam,” he said. “An’ the others…”

Cas slid his palm up to Dean’s cheek, aborting any effort to rise from the bed.

“Sam is asleep in the North Front bedroom,” he said softly. “Mrs Tran gave him a little poppy that she found in the kitchen. He needs the rest; I can sense he is healing inside. Outside, he is completely well. I took care of the worst.”

Dean let out a breath. He nodded, and turned his head, and kissed Cas’ palm. A novelty, that; a luxury.

“The ghosts?” he mumbled.

“Safe, all. Tired. Slowly putting the castle back together, and having fun.”

Dean smiled.

“The townspeople?” he said. “Can you hear…?”

“The curse on me is lifted,” Cas said. “My powers are, once more, what they used to be. The townspeople are not unscathed, but they are all alive and healing well. They do not remember what happened to them, here; it is fading from them, like a dream.”

Dean let out a long, long sigh.

“We did it,” he said quietly.

“We did it,” Cas agreed.

For a while, they simply lay in silence, watching each other. Dean reached out, and ran the very tip of his thumb over Cas’ bottom lip.

“Dean,” Cas said, and his voice was low - almost low enough to sound angelic, once more. “My new body…”

Dean stopped staring at Cas’ lips, and flicked up his gaze so that their eyes met. The feeling between them - the sensation of excitement, of interest, of bond - had taken on a new dimension, with Cas in this body.

“Can I see it?” Dean murmured. “All of it?”

Castiel gave him a long, long look - intense enough to set Dean’s skin tingling. He pulled back the covers, and _Christ_ _,_ Dean had forgotten that underneath them, Cas was still completely naked. The angel sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, his wings a little askew in places, his ass cupped by the mattress - and then he stood, and turned. He pressed his hands sleepily against his eyes, stretched, ruffled his bedhead - and held out his hands for Dean to look at him.

Dean could only stare, and stare. Cas’ thighs, his stomach, his shoulders… the V of his hips, and the way that his cock - when Dean watched it - twitched, ever so slightly. It had a blue vein running down one side, and Dean found that once he’d started looking, he didn’t want to turn away. Cas only got harder the longer Dean stared; his breath started to come a little faster. Dean looked, and looked - unashamedly, unabashed. Cas didn't seem embarrassed by Dean's scrutiny; he welcomed it.

“Dean,” he said, a question - a need. Dean pulled away the covers, and stood up; he shed his own clothing, and came to stand in front of Cas. He, too, was already half-hard, just from looking, imagining; he ached to be touched, but he resisted the urge to put his hand round himself. He wanted to focus on Cas.

Oh, and there was so much to focus on. In that sunny, golden room, Dean mapped out every inch of Cas’ new body with light, gentle touches.

A skim of fingers up and down his forearms.

A press of lips to his chest.

A light tug on the hair at the back of his neck.

An opened-mouthed kiss, still soft and sweet, to his throat.

Cas offered himself up to Dean’s ministrations, his breath hitching at the touch of Dean’s warm tongue, or the slight graze of a fingernail on his chest, just above his nipple; he let Dean continue for minutes, for what felt like hours, and it was bliss. Round and round, exploring this new creation, this new body, and doing it together; its scent, its sensitivities, its preferences.

Cas’ toes were curling on the floor by the time Dean lightly pushed Cas back so that he was standing with his wings and back pressed against the wall. Dean sank to his knees, and ran a single finger up the inside of Cas’ thigh.

“Cas…?”

“Yes,” Cas breathed. “Please. Anything.”

Dean didn’t need asking again. He turned his attentions to Cas’ cock, flushed pink and hard and already leaking. For a while, he simply looked at it; when he kept caressing Cas’ thigh, Cas groaned and arched his back against the wall, asking to be touched higher, harder, more. Dean stared, and stared, drinking in the sight like he’d never see it again; his fingertips wandered up, and Cas sucked in a sharp breath.

“You’re so beautiful,” Dean said. “Fuck, Cas. Look at you. I just wanna stare all day.”

He let the tips of his fingers keep stroking at Cas’ skin, deft little touches - and then, with one hand, he touched the shaft for the first time. He gave it a single, easy stroke, and Cas _gasped,_ hard; Dean felt a rush of arousal himself, just at the sound, and couldn’t resist letting one hand sneak down to touch himself - one, two quick pulls, biting on his lip, before returning his hand to Cas’ thigh.

“Cas, I wanna put you in my mouth,” Dean said. “Can I?”

Cas’ mouth was a perfect ‘o’; his face was flushed with the teasing, the denied pleasure.

“You can do that?” Cas said. Dean let the side of his mouth ever-so-lightly brush the very tip of Cas’ cock, and Cas trembled at the feeling.

“If you want,” Dean said. “Or we can do something else. Or we can stop.”

“No stopping,” Cas said, leaning back into the wall. “Just - just -”

“Ask for what you want, Cas,” Dean said, encouraging. “It’s OK.”

Cas let out a long, long breath.

“Put me in your mouth,” he said - and the way he said it had Dean reaching for his own hard, leaking cock again, at the same time as he finally gave into the need that he’d been denying them both - and opened his mouth, and took Cas’ cock into it.

“Uuuuuuuuhh,” Cas groaned. “Dean - Dean -”

Dean slowly - _agonisingly_ slowly - let his tongue play with the sensitive tip, swirling at the end, and then swallowing him a little further down. He looked up - and Cas was leaning against the wall, his throat exposed, his head tilted back, his expression still one of shock and wonder and surprise; Dean took him deeper still, and he grunted, low and deep, and looked into Dean’s eyes.

In that moment - knelt on the floor, Cas’ cock in his mouth, Cas’ eyes locked with his - Dean felt the sexiest that he’d ever felt, in his life; he felt beautiful, and powerful, and _so_ turned on. He hummed his arousal, his appreciation, and Cas gasped, his head falling back again; Dean started to build up a rhythm, flicking his tongue up to the roof of his mouth as he sucked Cas’ cock in and out, and in and out, so that the sensitive tip would bump the soft underside of his tongue again and again and again. Cas’ noises became deeper, more regular, more strained; they were low, unselfconscious, and they were enough to make Dean wonder if he could come like this, just with Cas’ cock in his mouth and his hand around himself.

“Dean - ah - ah - ah - Dean, I - something’s -”

Dean didn’t want to break the rhythm; he hummed again, to show Cas that he approved; with a long, low moan, Cas’ back arched all the way off the wall, and he was spilling and spilling down Dean’s throat, his legs juddering so much that Dean wrapped his arms around those thick, strong thighs to stop him falling. Cas’ wings even stretched, and trembled; he was still coming, silently now, his face tense and screwed up with the sheer pleasure.

He finished, and collapsed back against the wall. Dean gently released his thighs, and Cas slid slowly downwards, boneless. When he was on a level with Dean, they met each other’s eyes. Cas was still breathing hard.

"You OK?" Dean said, keeping his hands on Cas' skin, comforting.

Cas opened his mouth, and then closed it, and took several long, slow breaths.

“I do see, now,” he said, eventually, “why literature makes such a fuss.”

Dean grinned.

“Not bad, huh?”

“We should do that again. Soon.”

Dean stood up, and gently helped Cas to his feet. “You won’t hear me complaining,” he said. He could still taste Cas in his mouth, strong and salty. He ran his tongue along his lips.

“We should dress,” he said. Cas frowned, and then looked down at Dean’s still very definitely-present erection.

“You didn’t… come.” Cas used the word, obviously for the first time, with a little self-consciousness.

“It’s not all about that,” Dean said. “I’m happy, really.”

Cas tilted his head to one side.

“Please,” he said. “May I touch you?”

With the simplicity of the question - the naked desire, there, the curiosity - Dean’s reasoning for self-denial faded; his cheeks flushed.

He let out a breath.

“Yeah, Cas,” he said. “Yeah.”

It was Cas’ hands on him, now; they were stronger, less light-of-touch, more boldly exploratory than Dean's had been. Cas pinched Dean’s nipple between two fingers, and smiled to receive a gasp; he came in close, and pressed three hard, open-mouthed kisses to the side of Dean’s neck. Dean closed his eyes, letting himself get lost in the sensation of Cas' teeth grazing his skin.

“Tell me what you want,” Cas murmured, and Dean _gulped._ He wrapped his hands around Cas’ body; he allowed himself one self-indulgent little thrust into the space between them, giving himself a little friction and dropping his head onto Cas’ shoulder, before he replied.

“I want - I want to be on the bed,” he said. “And I want you next to me - sitting above me -”

Cas used his hands to guide Dean to the bed, lightly pushing him down onto the mattress. He sat down beside Dean, his soft cock resting between his legs, his eyes bright and warm and ready.

“And?” he said, tilting his head down at Dean.

“S-Stroke me,” Dean said. “Just - one hand - like…” He took Cas’ hand in his own, and showed him. “Like - _uh -_ yeah, like that. And just - talk to - m-me,” he finished, brokenly, as Cas’ strong hand jerked him off, steady and slow. He watched Cas, kept eye contact; he’d already been fairly close, just from touching himself, before, but with Cas’ touch and Cas’ gaze on him, he found a familiar tightening already building behind his cock.

“Dean,” said Cas. “You look so - so good like this. All laid out.” Dean found his legs rising into the air, bent at the knee, as Cas’ touch quickened. “You look beautiful. I want to do what you did to me, to you, next time. I want to take your cock into my mouth, I want you to come on my tongue, I want to taste you.”

Dean could have stopped the little noises he was making - but this was Cas, and he didn’t have to, so he let himself groan and grunt with each upward flick of Cas’ hand.

“God, Cas, yeah. Want that so much. Want to be with you like this - all the time - so much - fuck -”

The steady friction was bringing him close, teasing him nearer and nearer; he kept his eye contact with Cas, who stared back down at him, reverentially, lovingly. “I love you,” Cas said - and it was enough; Dean was coming, and it was an orgasm more beautiful, more emotionally intense, than any he’d had before; his body shook through it, and when it was over, he felt like crying.

Cas mopped him up, gently, with his discarded underwear - and lay down beside him.

“God,” Dean said, and laughed. Cas, not understanding, smiled along with him, but asked,

“What?”

“I think that’s the most sappy, sentimental orgasm I’ve ever had,” said Dean. “I mean, coming on _I love you._ Just, wow.”

He still felt a little of the residual need to cry; he hid it by pulling Cas close to him.

“You like hugs?” he said.

“I like hugs,” Cas confirmed.

“We should get married, then,” Dean said. The logic seemed sound enough, in the afterglow.

Castiel lifted his hand; on it was Dean’s golden ring - the one that he’d given Cas to make him look special.

“I thought we already did,” he said. And they laughed - and they kissed, some - and they fell asleep again, wrapped in each other’s arms. Safe.

And this was it, Dean knew. All he’d ever wanted. Not to feel exotic, not to feel strange - just to feel beautiful, and loved, and to love in return. His dreams, when he fell asleep, were golden.


	33. Chapter 33

And in his room, Sam slept comfortably. Castiel had been right; he was healing, his outsides fixed by the angel, his insides a place that only he could reach. He allowed himself dreams that were soft. He made plans, when he was near enough to consciousness, about how he was going to get a girl named Jessica out of prison - because she was there unfairly, and he'd known that more than a month ago, back before all this insanity had started. Back when he'd been a lawyer, in the city, chafing at his small-town connections. It seemed funny, almost, now - how much he'd cared about being accepted as a big-city kid who wasn't afraid to take the road past Angel's Hollow. That was all set behind him, now. He knew how to be a better lawyer, a better man, and he was going to save that girl. Sam planned, and he healed.

And tucked away in the shelter of the staircase outside, returned by a conscientious Missouri, the Impala waited to be fixed - to be running smooth as silk, once more. It was inevitable, the old car knew. She was always restored. She always felt the touch of those hands she loved on her engine, taking her apart tenderly, talking to her like the old friend that she was. It was strange, but the old car looked strangely in place outside the castle - as though the great, crumbling, dark architecture and the smooth, small little car had somehow managed to find a way to get along. The Impala sparkled in the sun, a jewel at the crown of the castle's rubbled face, and waited for the hands that she knew would come.

And in the garden room, the flowers waved their heads at each other, and knew that they would be well-tended, and well spoken to, for the years to come. Castiel had taken good care of them, it was true - but no one told stories to them like Dean; no one had those big, soothing, skillful hands like Dean. The garden room plants stretched their stems, raised their flower heads. They waited to be watered by Castiel, to be talked to by Dean - to be nurtured, and to give nurturing where they could in turn.

And, finally, downstairs, a set of tired ghosts knew that Castiel - the angel who saved their lives - would not feel alone, anymore, if they let go.

It had been so many years, so many centuries, that they had lived less than half a life, all to keep him company. They didn't regret a moment of it - not one of them would have said so. They had loved each other so much - loved Castiel, too, with all their hearts, and Dean, too, even - but they felt their memories fading, day by day. They felt their personalities altering. They felt the crush of time passing, without ever taking them through.

Charlie wished she could still dance. Mrs Tran wished she could cook without exhausting herself just picking up her utensils, her ingredients. Kevin was tired of having been so young, for so long. Donna and Jody wished they could just hold hands.

It was too much, too harsh, to keep living with their impossible dreams. The hurts would only get worse, the sadnesses only grow stronger.

The family of ghosts gathered in the dining room one last time. They made their farewells to each other; Castiel, who would not easily understand, they left to Dean, who would understand perfectly.

It was so easy for them to slip through to the other side.

Bright-eyed, holding each other’s hands until the last moment - they went.

The dining room was quiet without them; but they were ghosts. And they were gone. And this was right.


	34. Chapter 34

There are places nearby that are not what they seem.

They may have cruel-seeming contents; they may be frightening, and unknown, and ancient. They may look dark, and cold. They may seem like a trap - like a place where it would be impossible to build a home. They may have only a single room, at the heart, with any light left. But the light can grow - and it grows best in the hands of a person who loves growing things. And sometimes, a place that seems heartless is not truly so hopeless; and sometimes, the people who live in a place such as this are not, in fact, homeless.

And there are people nearby that are not what they seem.

They may be lonely, and damaged, and angry - but they are not without kindness. They may be happy, and settled, and selfless - but they are not without desires of their own. They may be light, and charming, and easy to love, at first - but these people may have coldness at their core.

And wherein lies the beast? In the anger? In the hunger? In the coldness?

Perhaps the beast lies in them all.

*

There are people nearby who are not what they seem, yes, and there is one such man sitting in a garden in Kansas. He has trimmed his beard. He still calls himself Chuck.

The garden has a great burned hole at the centre - as though something was taken, taken by force and fire. A tree, perhaps, judging by the shape of the hole, by the root-marks that press into the soil, still.

And around the hole, there are benches.

When Chuck arrives, the benches are empty; but he sits for a while, and without anyone coming in through the gate to join him, the benches become full.

On one, a boy eats mint choc chip ice-cream and talks, while his mother - as mothers should - listens, and feels pride in him.

On the next bench, a dark-haired woman with a dour face and a cop’s uniform eats her lunch. She has a little glint in her eye, though, that belies her grumpiness.

On the next, a blonde cop perches, and watches the first cop surreptitiously, out of the corner of her eye, while holding a magazine in her hands and not reading it.

And on the last bench, a red-haired girl reads a book with a wizard on the cover.

Chuck watches them for a while; eventually, though, he gets up and leaves. After all, he knows, you can't _make_ a story happen. You can’t force people to do things. You can just put them in the right place, and see what happens.

He whistles a song as he walks away - Blue Öyster Cult, of course.

In the park, the five people go solemnly about their own business for quite some time.

And then the blonde cop catches the eye of the redhead, and the mother narrows her eyes at the dark-haired woman eating her lunch, and the boy with the ice cream peers at each of them; they consider each other for a long, long few seconds. The moment hangs in the balance -

And then, as one, their eyes light up.

And it is right.

 

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Tale As Old As Time](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11057850) by [delicirony (deliciousirony)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deliciousirony/pseuds/delicirony)




End file.
